Times Forgotten
by strixx
Summary: Just a little collection of snapshots into the childhood of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, with all that could possibly entail.
1. Pirate's Couch

**Here's the summary again, for those of you on a mobile:**  
_**Just a little collection of snapshots into the childhood of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, with all that could possibly entail.**_

**Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock in this, and I personally don't see most of their childhood being turned to shit. I like to think it started - for the most part - when Mycroft left him, so that leaves a lot of room for standard childhood silliness and sibling rivalry.**

** Also, I see their father and mother as being absent from their lives, but still _there_, so hopefully that clears up any confusion. No word yet on if father Holmes is going to be abusive, but probably yes. Also, mentions of drug use in the future because why not? So possible warning for later chapters.**

* * *

**Pirate's Couch  
**

"Avast, ye big stroppy cod," Sherlock bellowed out to his brother as he walked into the living room. He had set up the couch cushions in such a fashion that they formed a pirate's ship. At least, to the eye of a child, and a particularly imaginative child at that.

He wore a baggy, white long-sleeved shirt with a purple strip of fabric tied at the waist, and another piece of the same fabric tied around his head. A black buccaneer's hat with a red feather. Dark locks of hair poked out of it, but he didn't seem to mind all that much. Brown shorts, Mycroft's black vest and nothing on his feet. A wooden pirate sword in hand, an eye patch and - upon closer inspection - a front tooth sharpied in black.

Mycroft only rolled his eyes. "Where did you get 'cod' from?"

The boy pointed his sword at him, taking a defensive stance atop his ship. "Why're you questioning me? That's insubordination, walk the plank!" He waggled the sword a bit, a playful sneer on his lips and an eyebrow raised challengingly. In the back of his mind he hoped that Mycroft would ask where he had learned that big word from, then he would cite the source as one of the encyclopedias in father's study...

A sigh. "Pirates didn't_ actually_ make people walk planks, you know," he said as he placed himself on the arm rest. That made the sword falter a bit, a confused pull of his eyebrows to go with it. "And, for some reason I think they wore shoes more often, too." Mycroft's eyes trailed down to his younger brother's bare feet with a small smirk.

Sherlock stamped his feet in protest. His burly pirate persona had crumbled. "Mycruft, stop it," he whined. "How would you even know that?"

"Because I did my research." He lifted his chin in response.

"Prove it."

"Pirates were more inclined to other more severe types of torture - doesn't that make sense? Beheading or otherwise hacking off limbs, holding lit matches to the eyes, skinning, water boarding, you get the idea." Without missing a beat, he added, "now let me sit down."

Sherlock let the information sink in. Mycroft was often right about these sorts of things; when he did his research, he did it thoroughly. It just wasn't fair.

He ruined the fantasy forever, because now Sherlock would begin to question everything he knew about pirates and would do his own research on the subject. Long ago they already disproved _with logic_ that they did not, in fact, sleep with one eye open. How many more things could possibly be inaccurate?

And with that, Sherlock slouched his shoulders in resignation and let the sword fall to his side. He contemplated fixing the cushions for Mycroft, but not for too long because why would he want to do anything for that prat? Jumping off the couch with a huff, he made his way up to his bedroom and sulked there for the rest of the day, glaring at his wooden sword and pirate's hat with a crestfallen frown.


	2. Blue Paint

**Blue Paint**

There was paint on the carpet. _Paint_ on the _carpet_. Mummy's nice, freshly hoovered carpet, imported from the heart of France, probably cost as much as a standard London flat. It had such a beautiful design - pink, white and red roses with muted green and golden vines, swirling aimlessly around. And now it was adorned with three or four blotches of light blue _paint_.

Mummy's face grew red. All Sherlock could do was numbly recall that red and blue made purple.

Then he thought about how purple was often associated with the feeling of sadness. It was all a very simple formula, really; blue paint plus mummy's red face ended in sadness. For whom, he didn't know quite yet but he figured that once father got home it would probably be him.

He didn't want to be in trouble over it, he only wanted to make a pretty blue sky to hang up in his bedroom when the real sky was dark, and it often was. But perhaps mummy was already sad - her face got red when she got both angry and sad - so perhaps it would be just her dealing with the feelings. He hoped so.

"Sherlock!" A gasp as she ran into the kitchen. She came back with a bottle of some solvent and a washcloth. She ordered a stern, "Time out! Now!" Swatting at his backside with the towel as she hurried past him.

Mycroft wasn't even home to dissuade her, as Mycroft had went off to school and wasn't due back home for another two hours. But mummy was going to clean it up for him, get rid of the blue that looked so badly against the golds and reds and whites.

Father wouldn't be home until late, so as long as she got rid of the stain before then, it shouldn't result in_ his_ sadness, only mummy's. Only mummy could make purple, with her red face about the blue paint, he was sure of it.

Still, the dark-haired youth trudged his way over to the corner like his mother had asked of him, paint set in tow. He went to the one with the small wooden stool specifically put there for his 'time-outs'. He knew that he would be sitting there staring at the wall for at least two hours, until Mycroft got home.

Maybe he would have to stare at the wall forever. He knew it was illogical on some level, but he couldn't stop his mind from wandering to a land where all he knew was the crease in the corner, a wooden stool and the two never-ending white walls on either side of his peripheral vision. It was discomforting.

… If he had to stare at the walls forever, then why not make them fun to look at? They were_ his_ 'time out' walls, after all.

And he wouldn't be sad because only mummy gets sad, because only mummy can make purple with her red face and blue paint.

By the time Mycroft got home from school, the corner was certainly far more _interesting_ than it had been previously. Mummy wasn't too keen about the walls, but it was clear that Sherlock was very proud of himself, even though he was aware of his punishment. The look on his face showed no remourse and no understanding. Perhaps he didn't understand... Reluctantly, Mycroft thought that perhaps he never would.

Mummy had cleaned up the paint as best as she could, but even after all those years, nobody had bothered to point out that there were still a few dark spots on her nice, beautiful carpet.


	3. The BlueBerry Waffle Incident

**Let it be said that this is a_ very_ toned-down version of what happened in my own childhood with my own brothers. For some reason I think that Sherlock tackling Mycroft into the couch and shoving blueberry waffles into his mouth would be a little too unrealistic in-universe.**

* * *

**The BlueBerry Waffle Incident**

Mycroft rummaged through the pantry for something to eat, nothing for himself in particular but his brother, on the other hand, was being an obnoxious prat and had asked for him to make waffles. As asked, two blueberry waffles sat steaming on a plate in front of Sherlock, a fork and a knife poised ready for him to use. The only thing missing was the syrup, and if Mycroft knew anything about Sherlock it was that he would not stand for his breakfast being anything less than drowned in the stuff.

After pulling out a packet of oatmeal mix for himself, he set back to searching for the bottle of maple syrup.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Hurry up, Myc, I don't wanna miss the bus," he urged as he kicked his legs back and forth in the seat, squirming in obvious impatience. As a hyper-active six year old, it was only natural that he wouldn't be able to sit still for any extended period of time, but it did make Mycroft tired just by watching him. One would think that the kid needed a break every now and again. Apparently not.

When Mycroft finally came upon the bottle of syrup, he couldn't help but let out a defeated sigh. There was nothing in it, save for the sticky remnants clinging to the cap. He held it up for emphasis. "Sherlock, why didn't you just throw it away if it was empty?"

The curly haired boy stared up to him with innocent eyes. "It wasn't empty when _I_ put it back." He lowered his head, but still kept that innocent look on his face as he peered up to his older brother. Mycroft closed his eyes as he went to go throw it in the trash bin, not bothering to call him out on the obvious lie. Nobody else used the syrup except for him and they both knew it. "So do we have anything else?"

It was a reasonable question, he supposed, but that didn't stop him from pausing in his tracks for a second in annoyance. "Obviously not." With his back turned to his younger brother, Mycroft couldn't see the way a scowl crossed Sherlock's face, or the way his hands balled up into fists.

"How am I supposed to eat this without syrup?" He whined, petulant in every sense of the word.

"I don't think you've actually tasted a waffle before. Have you ever tried them plain?"

Sherlock pouted and reached a hand out to the plate as he slid off of the seat. He quickly pulled on his backpack, pausing only to wonder if he was over-reacting. It took all of two seconds for him to decide that _no_, he wasn't, because his older brother was supposed to get him syrup and he _didn't_ and now he couldn't eat his breakfast because of it.

Then a blueberry waffle was angrily pegged at the back of Mycroft's stupid head.

He made a dash for the front door. "Have _you_?" He called out, spiteful, slamming the door behind him, not even caring about the hunger that bit at his stomach as he stormed off to the bus stop.


	4. Not Quite Mother's Day

**Not Quite Mother's Day**

Sherlock had been sitting in his bedroom, contemplating something the new maid had mentioned as they passed each other in the hallway earlier. He really should figure out a way to get her fired, she was so aggravating. She was a stand-in for their usual maid while she was away on maternity leave, and with one single passing comment Sherlock had developed a dislike for the poor girl:

"Be sure to wish your mum a happy Mother's Day."

In addition to that, he had found a folded piece of paper atop his bed, clearly written by Mycroft and containing a single line. _What is a parent_?

At first his mind had automatically answered with _a_ _mummy and father_, because it was the only logical conclusion, wasn't it? His parents were his biological predecessors - end of story. But then the question really began festering in his thoughts, almost completely blocking out his disdain for the stand-in maid. Mycroft definitely knew how to press at all the right buttons, leaving such a cryptic question for a message. Clearly it meant something, something that must be important, but what?

As he got up and turned towards his bookshelf he wondered if, perhaps, he was looking too closely into this. Mycroft normally liked communicating by means of subtext, but that didn't mean that everything he said had some type of alternate code, some deeper meaning to go along with it. That was just preposterous.

But why ask that question on such a family-oriented day? Why ask for the definition of parents on the day specifically centered around a parent? No, it definitely had to mean something, he was sure of it. Pulling out a large dictionary, he flipped to the word he was searching for.

_Parent: (n) A father or mother_

Fair enough.

_Parent: (v) Be or act as a mother or father_

Oh. But what is the definition of a mother? Of course the first definition was a biological one, but what about the other meaning? Sherlock flipped the book to the proper page.

_Mother: (v) Bring up (a child) with care and affection_

He then reached for the note and scribbled out an answer under the sole line of enquiry - _A caretaker_.

And then the world suddenly made sense. The note finally made sense. It was a terrible thing to think, but did his mother really deserve a day dedicated all to her position's namesake when it was quite clear that she didn't even care for him as a mother should? She was also a wife, a daughter, a friend, but never a proper mother. It was merely her connection to him. The title was essentially meaningless if she didn't act the part, yes? His father definitely did not act the part either. So now the only question that remained was, who was the parent in his life?

The answer to that was a very simple one. The longer he stared at the word _caretaker_, the more it seemed to grow so very dull, so very empty. It was maddening, until he pressed pencil to paper yet again to voice his new train of thought.

And maybe now, he thought flippantly, the new maid would be pleased with his compliance.

* * *

He had found upon his dresser the note returned back to him, next to some random paperwork and manilla folders. He picked it up, curious as to what it now contained, and stared down to the two hastily scribbled responses placed under his question. They stared back up to him, it was like a stab to his heart.

_What is a parent?_

_A caretaker.  
You._

Then he carefully flipped it over, only to discover something else written there on the back. _Happy Mother's Day, Mycroft._


	5. Nightscares?

**Nightscares?**

The first thing he registered was the warm blanket surrounding him, the second was the fluffy pillow resting beneath his head. The third thing was a voice, slowly rousing him to a groggy state of consciousness. He didn't know what was going on, but damn, was he tired.

"Myc," the childish voice whispered again, prodding, then there were a few more mumbled, indistinguishable words. It took some seconds for him to realize that he hadn't been paying attention. Mycroft rose to a sitting position and reached for his lamp on the bedside table, then heaved a sigh.

The sudden light revealed small boy, three – and _a half,_ as he had insisted – years old with blue pinstripe pyjamas, wild black curls, a flashlight in his right hand and a wooden pirate sword in his left, peering up innocently to his older brother from under long lashes.

Staring at Sherlock through squinted eyes, he frowned. "Uh, repeat that?"

Sherlock frowned back. Even in his state of lucidity, Mycroft could tell that he really didn't want to repeat again whatever it was he had said. Reluctantly, the boy opened his mouth to speak. "Please let me sleep in your bed?" Even though he mumbled it under his breath, even though he couldn't pronounce his 'L's quite right, even if he had a slight lisp to his speech, Mycroft could understand it. He didn't respond for a while. The blue eyed youth pouted up to him, indignant. "I had a night-... a nightscare."

A grin cracked across his face, he inhaled deeply through his nose in place of laughter. He shifted himself over to the other edge of his bed and lifted a welcoming arm for Sherlock. With the clattering of the flashlight as it fell to his wood-paneled flooring, Sherlock jumped under the covers and snuggled right up against Mycroft, face buried in his shirt.

He was still clutching the wooden pirate sword to his chest, however, and it made Mycroft purse his lips. Sherlock still needed the feeling of security it provided, of course.

"Pirates have night_mares_, not night_scares_," he teased as he reached across his younger brother to switch the lamp off. They were left in a soothing darkness again. The only sounds were their breathing and the tick of a grandfather clock downstairs. Then he felt a jab at his stomach.

"Pirates don't sleep," Sherlock declared, jabbing the wooden sword at his brother again.

Mycroft adjusted his head so that he could look down at his younger brother, eyebrows pulled together. "No, no, do you remember what I told you the other day? They sleep with one eye open."

The dark curls paused for a second, then shook side to side as if in mockery. "Their eye would die. Not true." he pinched his nose up against the fabric of Mycroft's shirt, and he could feel it.

"And not sleeping at all _is_ true?"

"Maybe," he shot back defensively. He remained silent for a few seconds before drawling out a breath. "Why do pirates wear eye matches?"

"Eye _patches_, Sher. It's so they can still see when they go someplace dark. You know how you couldn't see anything for a few minutes after I turned the light off? Well the eye patch keeps things already dark in one eye, so that doesn't happen."

Apparently Sherlock took it as a suitable answer, for he let out a contented sigh and snuggled even closer into Mycroft, wrapping an arm and a leg around his midsection. That was a weird habit of his, ever since he first started asking to sleep in his bed, but Mycroft had never mentioned it.

The sword fell forgotten on the other side of the bed, and for the first time, Sherlock let his older brother become all the protection he needed from the nightsca- nightmares.


	6. Stop Stuttering

**There is a trigger warning for this chapter.  
These will be few and far between, but I feel as if we need some scenes like this to give the whole picture of their childhood.**

**But on another note, I just want to say a quick thank you for reviewing_[and reading, of course!]_ to anybody I can't message personally, because it really does make me happy to see that people are enjoying this fic, :)**

* * *

**Stop Stuttering**

Sherlock, a small, weak child at the age of seven had just entered through the back door with a magnifying glass in one hand and a mason jar of nature tucked under an arm. It contained twigs, leaves, dirt, rocks, lady bugs and worms and whatever else the child had found particularly interesting while he had played out in the garden.

He tried to show mummy but she was talking on the phone and had hardly paid attention to his quick, stuttering speech as he explained what he read up on about the ecosystem earlier that morning. Oh well, she didn't need to know anyway.

So he bound up the stairs to go show father. Surely he would be interested. The curly-haired child had knocked on the door to his study - father insisted many times that nobody should enter without knocking and waiting for approval - and waited. When he didn't get a response, Sherlock got up to his tip-toes and knocked again. This time it was immediately greeted with a snippy, "Enter."

He always recognized when father was in a bad mood. Often times he locked himself in his study for hours on end, and always came out smelling strongly of cigar smoke and liquour. Always had a snippy tone of voice, always had a ruffled look to his collar along with a less than pleasant look on his face that suggested he could spiral into a fit of rage at the smallest spark of annoyance.

It was times like these that set Sherlock cautious and on-edge, made him feel as if he were skating on thin ice that could break the dam.

He opened the door and shyly slipped in, making sure to close it behind him. He ignored the way the smoke hung in the air and did his best to refrain from coughing. That wouldn't be good especially given his father's current mood. Placing the magnifying glass down atop the table, he held the mason jar up in both hands to present it to the quiet man slouched in his seat. "Look, father, I got- I got an ecosystem." The child was absolutely beaming, despite his father's uncaring purse of the lips.

"Great."

He continued on with an explanation, excited. "The leaves will make c-compost, for the- the worms, then the worms will make the soil better to plant things in. I just wanted to- to- to see how long it'll take the carbon dioxide to kill the ladybugs. The compost releases CO2, you- you know," he said with a proud smile on his face, but it immediately dropped to a frown as father cast a glare over to him. When the tall man stood up, Sherlock's heart skipped a beat and he skittered back towards the door.

Before he could reach safety a large hand had grasped at the front of his shirt collar. The mason jar fell to the ground; luckily it was sealed tight.

The young boy was yanked forward, enveloped in the smell of alcohol and cigars strong on father's breath. "Look at me, Sherlock." When he couldn't bring his eyes up to meet father's, his body was given a violent shake. He was demanded to look again, this time the tone a lot angrier. Somehow, even as he flinched, he did look up to his father's narrowed eyes, white-hot fear striking through his chest.

"_Stop_. Stutter _one more time_, and I'll beat the shit out of you."

He didn't know what it was - the absolutely gut-wrenching look on his face, the tone he used, the suddenness of it all, the assurance to his threat or any other number of possible things - but he did know one thing for a fact. After that day, after father had released his hold on the boy's shirt collar, Sherlock had promptly deleted everything he learned about the ecosystem and he _never_ stuttered in his speech since.


	7. Worst Day at the Museum

**Worst Day at the Museum**

It had started off rather well, actually, their little trip to the local environmental museum. Mummy had managed to get the whole family in on it, so father was there even as unwilling as he was. Sherlock had been wandering away from them the whole time, trying to get his hands on anything he possibly could. When he was ordered to come back and stay with the family about five consecutive times, he began to pout and protest loudly over it.

A fourteen year old Mycroft gave mummy a hug. "Sherlock's getting annoying, let me take him around?"

Unfortunately, she hadn't agreed. Mummy wanted everybody to stay together, as it was rare for them to go out as a family unless it was something strictly business. So they proceeded through the museum rather slowly, and Sherlock was getting bored with it, even with all the taxidermy animals and information given along the way.

That is, until they had made it to the insects exhibit, located just outside. There was an actual tour going on, apparently, as a lady was explaining something or another about butterflies. Sherlock seemed to have tuned her out in favour of doing some of his own exploring of the area. Mycroft sighed and followed closely behind his younger brother, to make sure he didn't get into any trouble out in the woods.

After surveying the area, getting into an argument over whether or not the berries on that bush were poisonous, and whether or not that was the call of a bluejay, the two boys came back to find their parent's tour group about ten feet ahead at the mosquito exhibit.

Of course Sherlock turned to his older brother and looked up with innocent eyes. "I wanna look at the butterflies, Myc."

"Why didn't you do it before?"

He didn't justify it with an answer. Mycroft rolled his eyes, yet the two ended up staying behind to examine the different colours and wing shapes and such of the butterflies in a glass case. Well, Sherlock was the one examining close-up, his older brother opted to keep a distance away. The young boy pointed to a certain one and demanded for his brother to explain everything about it. He knew that Mycroft didn't know a thing about butterflies, and he didn't either, but that didn't stop him from pouting when Mycroft verified the thought.

Sherlock swiftly jumped back to avoid it from falling on him. Then there was a crashing sound, and the tour group fell silent.

* * *

"Do you want your punishment now or later?" Mummy asked sternly, staring down to her son as she dragged the both of them away by an arm from the broken display case. The tour guide had already set to work cleaning it up out of the dirt while father spoke with another man.

Before thinking, Sherlock blurted out, "Now _and_ later." Mycroft did no more than shake his head. With that, the day had turned to utter shite. And the angry look on mummy's face, coupled with the growing red tint to her cheeks, told him that she was far less than impressed.


	8. Introduction to Deduction

**The Time We Sat at the Stairs and Deduced Father's Party Guests  
AKA: Introduction to Deduction**

"But Myc," a small, wild-haired boy whined in protest, "I'll be _bored_." He said it as if it was the worst fate in the entire world, and for a five year old, it probably was. The petulant little shite, with his shirt tail not tucked in, his collar not buttoned all the way up and his socks not matching.

Father would probably scold him for it later, for letting Sherlock run around with his clothing being improperly worn, but at the moment he had bigger problems to deal with. Such as getting him to go down to the Very Important Party without throwing a temper tantrum. That would be less than ideal, as last time it happened it had ended with mummy crying in the basement and father drinking in his study with the door locked. Mycroft stood there for a few seconds in thought before resting a hand on the younger boy's shoulder.

"Fine, we'll play a game then," Mycroft finally said as he began leading his brother down the grand staircase.

At that Sherlock visibly brightened up, a small skip to his step. "A game?" He repeated, a grin evident in the tone, "What kind of game?" Mycroft tried to ignore the slight bit of apprehensiveness that went along with the question.

They paused at the foot of the stairs and looked around the party. It was a formal occasion, with only the most pompous of socialites in attendance. It was for some business or another of father's, and it was imperative that everything go smoothly and without fault. Mycroft had obviously been put in charge of Sherlock, to make sure he didn't disrupt anything.

A week or so prior Mycroft had suggested just keeping him locked up in the bedroom and left to his own devises, but both parents had been against it, albeit a little unwillingly. The whole Holmes family had to be present, otherwise it would look poor on their part as hosts. They said that they didn't even have to introduce themselves, they just had to be present. Fair enough.

Father had made it very clear that Sherlock should be kept away from the main table at any rate, and that his children should be seen and not heard unless directly spoken to. Sherlock tended to have problems with that last bit. So Mycroft had to find a way to entertain his younger sibling.

"An observing game," he said finally as he sat at the stairs, his brother following suit, clutching to the railing with his eyes peering between the bars. "You can't make it obvious, you know."

"Whatever, just explain it," Sherlock prompted, rather eager, though he did back off from the bars and settled into an unassuming slouch.

Mycroft's lips twitched upwards. "There are three people here cheating on their significant other. Find them."

The boy paused for a second, unsure, with his head tilted to the side. "Define 'significant other'." He gave his older brother an offended arch of his brow when he let out a laugh. "What? What's funny?"

"You are. Now a significant other is a wife or husband or a boyfriend or girlfriend." And then he received another look, this time a pout on Sherlock's lips.

"But how would I know that without asking them?" It was a pleading voice this time, a bit aggravated at the fact that he had no idea how to play this game.

Mycroft lowered his head conspiratorially. "Look, then observe what you see. Use your brain. I know you can." He recalled a few months back when he had said something about the ink stain on father's sleeve, so without a doubt his younger brother could refine this skill. And with that Sherlock turned his head back around and tried to take the advise. He looked. Observed. Five or six of them stood out to him as 'possible'.

The people were bustling around, sitting down and chatting and laughing, so busy and so many tight dresses and spiffy suits and glasses of wine, and he really didn't want to be anywhere near it. But the game was on and he was _not_ about to back down from the challenge.

Then Mycroft butted in. "One of them is in a rather odd situation, keep that in mind." He took note of that and pushed it to the side.

Sherlock spoke up after two minutes or so, eyes squinted in concentration, not bothering to even turn and regard Mycroft. "The blonde lady over there. The man with a crew cut over there." Mycroft interjected the explanation. He swatted at Sherlock's tiny hand and scolded him about pointing fingers. It was rude. Sherlock continued as if nothing had happened, "Are you sure there's three and not two? The blonde is only a possibility, anyway."

Mycroft took in what his brother was saying and pursed his lips. "Explain what you observed about her." It was a demand, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at it.

"She has no ring, but a tan line on her ring finger. It could mean that she's _looking_ to cheat on her 'significant other', not that she _is_, and maybe she just didn't want to wear it."

Mycroft used a careful infliction of words, to nudge him in the right direction of thought. "It must be expensive, so she'd obviously want to show it off, Sherlock. About her 'not wanting to wear it', the fact that there's a tan line to begin with says that she never takes it off. Theory disproved. She left it at home and she already is cheating, she's here with a guy at the main table. I know because she keeps looking over there. She knows how to hide it very well otherwise. And I bet she told her friends that her husband was sick and couldn't make it."

His dark curls dipped downwards as he glared to the ornate carpet. "How do you know she left it at home? She could have left it in a pocket or in her bag."

"She would never. She would hate for somebody else to discover it or to risk losing it. See how she's fiddling with her earrings to make sure they don't come off?"

Sherlock slipped into silence for a while to absorb the information. Apparently he came to accept what his brother was pointing out and switched to a different train of thought. "The man with the crew cut is simple. His wife is on the left and the girl he's cheating with on his right. The wife is wearing light lipstick and the other is wearing dark, and there's a dark smudge on the right side of his collar. Right?" He looked up and was practically bouncing with excitement.

Mycroft nodded his head. "Right. Not to mention the two long strands of hair stuck to his jacket, clearly not from his short-haired wife."

At that Sherlock rolled his eyes. One-upsmanship was just in their brotherly contract, he supposed. "Now the last one-"

"You get one hint." Mycroft observed him with a steady gaze, but Sherlock only nodded his head in agreement, a little wary. "Remember what I said about them being in an odd situation? It involves three women." With that he leaned back with a smirk. The dark haired boy seemed thoroughly confused, yet he peered back between the bars more alert than ever.

After a while he turned back around, face sour at admitting his defeat. "I don't know. I don't want to play anymore." Mycroft figured the best course of action at this point would be to just let him accept his defeat, but no. He _had_ to understand this. He had to become more aware.

"You look, then you observe. Then you need to _deduce_, no matter how silly you think it may be. As long as you follow a logical path, the answer you arrive at should ultimately be the truth."

And with that the younger crossed his arms with a huff. "Serious, Myc, I really don't want to do this anymore."

"Why, because it's too hard for you?" It was a childish taunt, but Sherlock was still a child and it always seemed to work. Without another word he returned his eyes to the scene, to try and figure out the last piece of this puzzle.

"Is it the forty year old in the green dress? And the thirty-something in black?" He motioned his head in their direction. He sounded more exasperated than interested.

"You got the ages switched. The one in the green only looks older because she drinks and smokes. Obviously." Sherlock opened his mouth in protest, but he cut it off, "I smelled the alcohol on her when I passed by her earlier in the evening. She disappeared for about fifteen minutes, and just came back, the perfect time to have a smoke. The one in the black dress is disappointed in her. She tried kicking the habit cold turkey, but the stress of the event got to be too much."

Sherlock stirred at the words. He turned to cast an accusing stare onto his brother. "You're pulling this out of your arse!"

"Language!" He scolded immediately. Mycroft didn't defend himself, only went on with his explanation. "She has ashes all over the bottom front of her dress, you can see it easily against the green. It's evident she tried wiping it away, but she couldn't get it off the material. Why else would the one in black be giving her a disappointed look, if not because she gave in to temptation so quickly?"

Sherlock tongued at his molars but hummed in begrudging agreement. When he spoke up, all traces of that was gone. "What does that have to do with either of them cheating? You got off-topic."

"Ah, whatever. The one in green is being unfaithful. When she first came in she spotted a redheaded woman in a pale blue dress, the one on the opposite side of the room, and panicked. Ever since then the green one has refused to even turn her head in that direction. And she purposefully sat the both of them so that the one in black would have to strain to see the redhead. It's easy. You could've came to the same conclusion."

"If I _saw it happen_," he amended. "I wasn't there for any of that, you idiot."

Mycroft chuckled, but remained otherwise silent. A few minutes later, the two of them sharing a wordless exchange of side-glances in between, the older stood up and grasped Sherlock's wrist. "Come, let's introduce you to those boys over in the other room."

"No. No, I won't." Sherlock dug his sock-clad feet into the carpet and resisted Mycroft's pull. A sigh escaped Mycroft, because of course he wouldn't want to go socialize with kids around his age. The only person he could hold a conversation with was his older brother, because he considered him at least somewhat intelligent and therefore worthy of speaking with. "I'll stay here the whole time if you let me. Promise."

Mycroft had given in. How could he not have? Sherlock completed two-thirds of the game with very little fault, and that was all kinds of commendable in his eyes. For the rest of the night the two just sat there at the foot of the stairs and examined their guests, argued over the logic of pirates and stayed out of their parent's hair like the good little boys they were.


	9. And So It Begins

**And So It Begins**

"How was your date?" It was the first thing that greeted him when he came home, the rest of the house having retired to bed at such an hour, and he really didn't want to deal with the superior attitude. The eight year old didn't seem to know when to keep his nose pressed firmly in his own business, or when to shut up.

"Please, Sherlock, spare me the time and figure it out for yourself." Mycroft didn't want anything more to just fall asleep and forget about the whole ordeal. He figured it would be best to not spur anything on. Mummy and father probably wouldn't appreciate being woken up so late in the night by an argument, anyway. So he merely began trudging up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock stayed in his position on the couch, didn't even bother to raise his voice as he examined his brother walking up the stairs and rambled off what he saw. "Went out to the cinema. Sat for two movies. Oh – brought her out to dinner beforehand, an Italian place, how did I miss that? She got upset with you during the second film, over your attitude, I'm assuming. More likely over something you said. Cab ride home, didn't talk the whole time. And now here you are wondering if you should go on another date with her."

This was around the time that he really began regretting teaching his brother how to do that. Mycroft grit his teeth, hand tightening around the railing as he paused in his tracks. "It wasn't meant as a challenge, you know."

Sherlock continued on in that same bored tone, as if his brother hadn't even spoken, "Don't do it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't go on another date, obviously. If she's so sensitive then it's better for the both of you to end it before it gets worse. I know you're rather charming and all, but you and I do have our flaws. Sensitivity is just not our forte." Sherlock remained entirely passive as he gave the explanation, like he _hadn't_ just given his fifteen year old brother dating advice.

Mycroft wasn't in the mood to respond with anything more than a sour huff and a cross of the arms. "Shut up, Sherlock."


	10. Sneaking Out for the First Time

**Sneaking Out For the First Time**

It was eight o'clock at night, not the most ideal time but they were waiting and he had to get going. Mummy and father rarely checked up on him after six-thirty anyway, so it hardly mattered. He could leave in peace and that's all that mattered. He was in complete darkness; he would never risk having somebody stop in to turn off the light. As much as he loathed anybody entering his bedroom, his family members did like to do it a lot, and without permission at that.

He had just opened the window and had gotten one leg out when he heard footsteps outside his room. _Shit._ There was a decent chance of them coming in, they did love invading his privacy after all. A crack of the door - turned out that rang true at the worst possible time ever. Unfortunately.

Sherlock tongued at his molars and stared down to the white window sill as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

The footsteps weren't heavy like fathers, or clumsy and quick like mother's. The maid was the only sentient being in the whole Holmes household who held enough common sense and respect to knock before entering any room, so that left her out of the question.  
He sighed, shoulders tensing. "Can I help you with something, Mycroft?" His tone had a purposeful edge to it, yet he couldn't bring his eyes up to meet his brother's scrutinizing gaze.

"Not if I'm interrupting, of course." All he did was stand there, quietly clicking the door shut behind them.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the window sill, nails tapping against it impatiently. "You are. Be quick about this, if you would." He would never dare to admit, even to himself, that the increase in heart rate was due to anything but the sudden aggravation at his older brother. Mycroft remained silent. In the back of his mind, he figured that he was just mulling over what to say, but that didn't stop Sherlock from coming to the decision that he was doing it on purpose. "Really, I've got someplace to be," he said with a sneer.

Then he understood.

Moving his leg back in, he slowly closed the window and pried his stare from the white sill, turning to face Mycroft.

Bulldog stance, shoulders relaxed, arms casually to his sides. Mycroft picked and chose when he wanted Sherlock to read him, which he found frustrating on so many levels. He could mask his intentions and feelings just as easily as the younger Holmes could.

At the moment he wanted to discuss something, but he wouldn't be demanding about it and he would most certainly _not_ be denied. "Where do you plan on going, may I ask?" The tone of voice was casual as well, but Sherlock knew well enough that it was meant to be taken as a mild threat. Mycroft didn't actually care _where_ he was going, but more so _what_ he was doing and _why_. Mostly why.

"You may not."

"So I won't be pleased with the answer, then." He said it as a fact, not a question, and it was just another line on an endlessly long list of things he hated the most about his older brother.

"Nothing I do pleases you." That was enough of an answer as to _what_ and _why_, and they both knew it. There was a beat of silence before Sherlock heard a deep breath come from the opposite side of his dimmed bedroom.

Mycroft turned to inspect the periodic table poster hanging up over his brother's messy bed. "You were always so intuitive - what happened? You could have at least attempted to arrange the comforter so that it looks like you're still there." He still remained expressionless, as if they were discussing the weather or any other number of mind-numbing topics. "And you could leave another pair of shoes where your other ones were, in case anybody takes notice that they're gone. You're new to this, are you?"

Sherlock could feel his nostrils flare out. "Not once in your life have sneaked out of this house, how would you know _anything_?"

"I have ways around mummy and father's rules. I've never had the need to sneak out," he spat back a little more venomously than what was probably intended, then regained his stoic composure. "But to answer your question, it's the simple application of _logic_. Something you don't seem to be well-acquainted with."

In that moment it had stopped being a matter of him being late, and had turned into a matter of_ I just want this pompous bastard to shut up already_. It wasn't as if he was required to stay and listen to a lecture on the proper method of sneaking out, and his brother had already said his piece. Nothing more could be added that wasn't obvious. And Mycroft had made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of coercing him into staying, so... "We can continue this conversation some other time, yes? I really must be going." Sherlock turned on his heel to start towards the window.

"Sherlock?" He grit his teeth in response, yet showed no outward indication that he had heard his brother. Only lifted up the window and began his exit. Mycroft had turned to the door, about to leave as well. "Be back before sunrise, that's all I ask of you."

"I've no reason to follow your orders. You're not an authority figure, you know."

Sherlock turned his head just in time to catch a smile appear on his older brother's face. "I know." And with that, his door was quietly clicked shut again and it left him alone in the darkness.

With a shaky - albeit defiant - breath, he shut the window behind him with a little more force than necessary and sauntered off into the night, wishing that he could wring his brother's neck. Because he _had_ arrived back home before sunrise and had adhered to his brother's unsaid request of 'not too much', against his better judgement, because Mycroft was never one to be denied.


	11. The Koi Pond

**If you guys ever feel like giving me a prompt or an idea or something, then by all means, don't be shy... :)**

* * *

**The Koi Pond**

It was a beautiful sight - the backyard was large, full of shrubs and flowers, brimming with greenery and open space and sheer luxury. There was a koi pond on one side, completely shielded from view of the house by large trees. It was a perfect spot.

It was their spot, actually, their designated sanctuary when the outside world got to be too much to handle. When thoughts flew a little too quickly and when people got a little too grating. The koi pond had a calming effect, if even for a little while, just to get away from it all when it was really needed.

And the sanctuary was needed all right. Shouts and angry words coming from the house could still be heard, though barely above a murmur, as Sherlock made his way out to the pond dragging along a book. When he made his way through the trees, he stopped in his tracks for a second. He was halfway surprised to find his older brother already there, hands clasped behind his head as he lay out on his back, in front of the rocks that surrounded the pond.

Neither acknowledged the other as he approached, his book left forgotten a few feet away. They lay side by side under the stars, Mycroft resting on an old blanket and Sherlock not having bothered with anything but his own pyjamas. They were getting soaked through, but it wasn't that cold out and he could live with it. The book could live with it as well. It wasn't as if the pages would be ruined forever.

Mycroft was the first to break the silence after five long minutes. "You do know why most of our koi fish are golden, yes?" He asked.

The ten year old had done some research on Japanese culture a while back so of course he knew why - the colour symbolized gold, wealth, and prosperity. He couldn't help but scoff. "Because mummy and father are predictable." He knew that the words had a double meaning, and he knew that Mycroft had caught on to it very quickly.

"Perhaps we should get a black one, then." That caused Sherlock to grumble something under his breath, unsure himself if it was supposed to be an agreement or otherwise. "Two, actually, for the both of us." A black koi fish was said to bring about changes in life circumstances, which did sound rather agreeable.

All he did was give his brother a disinterested hum as a final response.


	12. Move Your Damn Legs

**Move Your Damn Legs From My Side of the Couch**

"Myc, _move_!" An eight year old Sherlock punched his brother's legs in protest when the prat had decided to lay out fully on the furniture. He was trying to watch something, and did Mycroft seriously have the nerve to claim the entirety of the sofa as if it were his own? When the legs didn't move from their position, feet propped up atop the arm rest, Sherlock kicked wildly.

"If there's a problem why not just move over there?" Mycroft shot back, jabbing a thumb towards a loveseat against the adjacent wall.

He sneered. "Because _this_ couch is obviously better to watch telly on, given the position of the screen," he said, superiority practically lacing the tone. "Now get your feet away from my side of-" he was cut off by a single sock-clad heel digging into his shoulder, prodding at him in repetition. "Stop!"

Mycroft paid his little brother no mind, just continued his assault in an attempt to rid the child from the sofa. Sherlock yelled at him, indignant, when he began roughly pushing him into the cushions. That was when the boy managed to lift his own legs and began kicking, shoving his brother back with just as much vigour. Their limbs soon became tangled, yet they still both continued to kick out of spite. "Why are you so annoying?" He whined. "The couch doesn't belong to you!"

"Doesn't matter. I'm older, so I have priority over you," Mycroft replied between shoves as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Being much smaller than his fifteen-year-old brother, Sherlock never really stood a chance. In the end the inky-haired boy was thrown from the couch, leaving a victorious Mycroft in his wake as he lounged down further into the sofa, stretching out his legs in comfort.

He had shot a vicious glare up to his brother for it.

Sherlock then took it upon himself to run up to mummy and father's bedroom, conjuring up some crocodile tears as he explained the situation to them. Rubbing at a reddening arm, he stood at the foot of their bed in lamentation. "... kicked me... and he said because he's older he _can_ do that," he howled, pouting up to mummy with tear-streaked cheeks.

In the end, perhaps Mycroft hadn't won. By mummy's stern decree, he was banished to the loveseat while Sherlock had been granted the larger sofa all to himself. When mummy had tiredly made her way back up the stairs, Sherlock resumed the lounging position that his brother had done not five minutes earlier. He stuck his tongue out to the fat git. Served him right, trying to act like he owned the place. At the moment, Sherlock was the king of that castle and he wasted no time in flaunting it off, stretching his legs out across the sofa in amusement.


	13. Having a Row Over Dinner

**There are mentions of drug use in this chapter, but just barely. **

* * *

**Having a Row Over Dinner**

Sherlock gave a scathing glare to his older brother seated cross the table, who only glared back with just as much intensity. Dishes of ham, mashed potatoes, peas, corn, stuffing and bread rolls were placed between them, keeping the two a safe distance away from each other. If one didn't know any better, one might start to believe that the food was being kept warm from the heat exchanged between the two brothers.

Mummy and father had asked them to stop using cuss words and such, but of course it was ignored in favour of a silent battle of scrutinizing gazes and harsh sneers. Mycroft was an adult now anyway, attending college and such, he could cuss all he wanted. He had only come back that night from mummy's insistent request, so he supposed that their parents deserved the proper respect.

At least he and Sherlock weren't hurling creative insults at each other anymore, that was an upside.

The strangest part was that none of them knew what had started it. One second they were sat down at the dinner table piling food onto their plates, then the next thing they knew Sherlock and Mycroft were engaged in a row, fingers tightened around silverware, shoulders tensed up and faces twisted in abhorrence. Quietness followed for the next few minutes.

Then Sherlock decided to break the deathly silence, eyes prying away to give his brother's plate a pointed stare. "So how's the diet going?" His voice was the very picture of passive innocence to any outsiders, but to Mycroft it was the most arrogant, grating sound in the world. Especially after such a heated exchange of insults.

"_Fine_," he snapped back a little too quickly, teeth grinding together in frustration. His eye had actually twitched at the words, but two could play at this game, he figured. "Was your breakfast decent?" That was killing two birds with one stone, actually. Big Brother knew whenever he went to shoot up, and Big Brother definitely knew whenever he had dropped a couple more pounds. In the end of it all, however, it was none of his business_. _Yet_.  
_

Conveniently enough, Sherlock's breakfast that morning had been replaced with some questionable substances.

"I had a bowl of cereal, brother dear. Did your _study session_ go well?" Of course he would know about that. About how Mycroft had excused himself from the family dinner the other day to sit in his old bedroom and drink father's brandy like there was no tomorrow, under the false pretense of 'studying'.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Of course. So how was school today?" Mycroft knew exactly what had happened - a group of girls had called him out during class and he was utterly humiliated in front of the whole room before being sent down to the principal's office. He always seemed to get in trouble for things, even if he hadn't been the one to instigate any of it.

Perhaps it was because the girls had questioned him about his state of being, and was made to take a test right on the spot after he got to the office. It came up 'negative', or at least that's what it said on record. Of course that was only due to the fact that Mycroft knew some people and knew which strings to pull in Administration.

Sherlock let his eyes stay closed a little bit longer as he let out a breath. It seemed as if he were trying to calm himself down, but Mycroft knew better than that. He was trying to come up with some sort of backlash retort and it seemed to have failed. Opening his eyes yet again, he cast a dark grimace towards his brother. "Boring."

"Was it now?"

There was the abrupt sound of a chair screeching against polished flooring as Sherlock stood up. He left the table in a flourish of black clothing and a piss-poor attitude that lingered behind him, sat in his seat, even. The table's three remaining occupants fell quiet for the rest of dinner, and not once was their row commented upon by any concerned parents.


	14. The Tattoo Incident

**The Tattoo Incident**

Father had brought home two decent-sized boxes one day. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock knew why he had done it, exactly, but there they were, sitting in his arms without any apparent rhyme or reason. Each of the black cardboard boxes contained two very large rolls of temporary tattoos. One roll contained black and white tattoos, the other was coloured. Some tattoos were large and some were small, some were better than others. They couldn't complain, even if it was random and practically useless.

Father had told Mycroft later that evening, after resting them on a shelf, that a friend had given the boxes to him, and he really had no intentions of doing anything with them. What was a grown man to do with temporary water-on tattoos anyway, he had wondered out loud. Yet again, he hadn't even spared a thought for his children. The two brothers couldn't agree about whether he did it on purpose or not.

All that nonsense hardly mattered, though, because once father left for work the following morning, Sherlock sneaked into his study and pulled a chair up so he could reach the shelf. He had retrieved the two boxes from their hiding place atop some old files, next to a couple of missing coffee mugs.

Being the intuitive child he was, Sherlock made sure to painstakingly put back everything_ exactly_ where they had been before, then scurried out of the room. The two black cardboard boxes were hidden poorly under his shirt when he had passed by the maid, on his way to his older brother's bedroom.

He presented them to Mycroft some minutes later with a wicked smirk.

Neither of them could wipe the grins off their face when Sherlock suggested that they use the entire box's contents on each other. Sherlock had thought Mycroft would turn down the idea instantly, but to his surprise, his brother was just as excited as he was about this new prospect. Even those with plans to rule the world had to take a day off every once in a while, he figured.

It was silly in every possible regard ever, but neither of them wanted to care. It took about one hour in the kitchen, a wet sponge and a lot of laughter to complete the job, and when it was all said and done with, neither of them could bring themselves to regret the decision.

When father arrived home from work, evidently weary and tired from a very long and very stressful day, all he could do was stand in the entryway and stare.

The two were giggling and joking with each other, both shirtless, sitting in the living room with their attention being switched from their ongoing conversation about needles and hepatitis B, to the telly, to the small gaming system in Sherlock's hands. And with nearly every square inch of visible skin - save for their faces - covered with_ tattoos_.

A small dip of the eyebrows, accompanied shortly after with a whisper of a grin as he loosened his tie. It was far too surreal; he needed some whiskey.


	15. Grocery Shopping

**Grocery Shopping**

"Mummy, I want sprinkles, can we get sprinkles? Those cool Valentine's Day ones with the hearts?" An animated Sherlock asked, bouncing at his mum's side and pulling at the hem of her shirt. Mycroft had tagged along as well, but he chose to remain silent and fell back a foot or so behind them.

They all turned into the frozen foods section and she stared down to her younger son, confused. "Hon, I don't know what you're talking about?"

He frowned for a second, then instantly brightened up when he turned around to his brother, having remembered that he was there with them. "Myc, do you remember? They were all in the shape of hearts and we had them on our sundaes and they tasted really, really good?" He asked, hopeful eyes peering up.

Mycroft only shook his head after a few seconds of thought. "No, don't remember."

"I don't, either, Sher," mummy said as they reached the ice cream. "How about I get these for you instead?" She grabbed a container of multi-coloured sprinkles and held it up for him to see.

Sherlock pouted and stamped his feet, annoyed with the both of them for not remembering. "No, I want the other ones... Those won't taste good!" he whined. Mummy and Mycroft shared a look before the small child began promptly throwing a fit.  
The worst part was that Mycroft really did remember, just that he didn't feel like explaining to Sherlock that it was the middle of the summer, and Valentine's Day had passed about five months prior.


	16. Phone Call From School

**Phone Call from School**

An eight year old Sherlock had come home from school one day, his bulky backpack overflowing with notebooks and papers and textbooks. He made for the stairs, but a voice echoed down from the kitchen. "Sherlock, come in here." It was father.

Slowly, warily, he walked to the kitchen to find both of his parents - and Mycroft - sitting at the round breakfast table. Father motioned him forward with a wave of the hand when the inky-haired youth appeared in the entryway. He set down the backpack where he stood before approaching, so he could take in the scene. Mummy looked halfway concerned, father seemed irritable as usual and Mycroft was absolutely indifferent in every sense of the word. Father had a coffee mug in his hand, mummy kept touching at her right ear and Mycroft was, as expected, eating from a tray of biscuits.

Sherlock slid on a chair, kicking his legs absently as he stared down to the wooden tabletop. He fiddled with his thumbs, not daring to speak up first. This could be for any number of different reasons. He just didn't know which one, considering he had been rather 'bad' lately towards his classmates and he wasn't getting along with Mycroft all that well either. He just waited it out, trying to ignore the way his brother arched a brow at him.

Mummy was the first to speak up. "We got a phone call from school, dear. Is there anything you'd like to tell us?" She had that crease in her forehead and she still kept touching at her right ear; yeah, she was definitely concerned, but _why_?

Sherlock tried not to let his confusion show through when he lifted his head to face mummy. Instead, he opted to dodge the question. "What'd they tell you?" Mummy spared a glance over to father, who didn't seem to have shifted his mood in the slightest. Sherlock really didn't understand any of this. Giving Mycroft a blank look, mentally pleading for him to just _spit it out -_ seeing as their parents were incapable of doing so - all he received in return was an equally as blank expression that told him nothing. He frowned. "Mummy?"

"Why haven't you been eating your lunch?" Father shot an accusing stare down to Sherlock, who couldn't stop himself from screwing up his face in confusion.

Why did it even matter, he couldn't help but wonder. "I'm not hungry during school." He paused a beat. "You told me that I shouldn't eat if I'm not hungry, so-"

"They think we're not feeding you," father interrupted, the tone deadly and his top lip turning to a thin, white line. Sherlock slumped in the chair and pinched his shoulders up, diverting his eyes elsewhere. "Are you bringing food to school at all? Buying it?"

"No sir."

At that, father grew indignant. "You will eat your lunch from now on, no matter how hungry you are and_ you will not complain about it_," he said, voice rising in anger. "Do you understand me?"

"You don't need to yell, father," Mycroft interjected, making Sherlock's head snap up along with their parent's. "I'll make sure he doesn't leave in the morning without money or a lunchbox. Okay?" The curly-haired boy could do nothing but stare at his older brother, and he stared back with that same eyebrow arched as if the last part was directed towards him. Sherlock couldn't identify the reason why at the time, but he could feel something akin to gratitude swell up inside his chest and his respect for Mycroft simply skyrocketed within the span of a few seconds.

Then it crashed back down to earth as soon as he spoke up to add something else. "And I'll ask them to call again if he misses a day."


	17. Soup

**Soup**

Whether it was by fate, Murphy's Law or just sheer bad luck, Mycroft's girlfriend had been sent over to babysit Sherlock while everybody else was away. Father was on business, mummy wanted a mini-vacation, Mycroft had been away at some school-sanctioned event and it was one of the maid's designated days off.

That left the Holmes' with very little to do about the situation with Sherlock. Being only nine years old, he was, under no circumstances, allowed to be left home alone. After pulling some strings Mycroft had persuaded his girlfriend at the time to babysit the curly-haired demon for a day.

So there he sat at the table, observing Samantha as she pulled out a can of condensed chicken noodle soup. Sherlock may or may not have told her that he was feeling a bit ill, just to give her something extra to worry about when he was, in fact, not. He remained silent as he watched her go about preparing it, having a bit of trouble with their can opener and such.

"Where's the bowls?" She finally asked, standing there with an opened can of soup in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other.

Sherlock pointed a finger in the cabinet's general direction. "Second from the left." She thanked him but he ignored it. "Why're you dating Mycroft?" He asked out of nowhere, catching the girl off-guard for a second.

Then she settled down and turned to Sherlock with the wooden spoon pointed at him. "What, are you _jealous_?"

"Jealous?" He repeated, nose scrunched up in distaste. "No. I'm just saying, he's repulsive." It earned him a disbelieving, playful glare along with a vague smile.

"Well _I_ think he's charming," She said with a flighty, superior tone, biting at her bottom lip as she turned to take two bowls out of a cabinet. A scoff came as her response while she distributed the contents of the can evenly between the bowls.

The young boy said not a single word more, until a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup was placed in front of him, a spoon following shortly after. Analyzing it for a quick second, he smirked as he watched Samantha take a seat across from him. She nudged a scone in his direction, but he ignored it in favour of silently mocking her with that leering grin. After a couple bites of bread, she glanced up to him with a confused pull of her eyebrows. "What?"

He bubbled up with laughter, barely able to speak through the strain on his throat. "You forgot to put water in the soup."


	18. Always Hated Pictures

**Always Hated Pictures**

"Sherlock, _please_," Mycroft hissed down to his four year old brother, who had been scowling over to the camera in their Great Aunt Angie's hands. All the poor lady wanted was to take some photos, to show her friends and neighbors what beautiful grand-nephews she had. Though after about five or so pictures, Sherlock was having none of it. It was simply too overwhelming. He ignored Mycroft and began squirming about, growing agitated with all the picture-taking and hugs and laughs and false-politeness and he just wanted to be _left alone_.

They were standing in front of a dinner table, having just arrived at some family get-together and they were already being bombarded with people and cameras and greetings.

The white-haired woman fussed over him, and Mycroft shot him a warning glance. "Sweetie, would you please smile?" Aunt Angie had passed the camera over to another family member - Great Aunt Dottie, if he remembered correctly - and the old bat decided to scoop him up in her arms for the photo. He allowed it for all of one flash of the camera, forcing a small smile onto his face to appease her, for he really did like her. But when two or three more flashes went off, he started kicking and crying, trying to wriggle his way out of Great Aunt Angie's arms. Why couldn't they just stop?


	19. Faulty Memories

**Faulty Memories  
**

There was loud country music, and an old lady in a shimmering dress talking to mummy, and a bunch of old people sitting at tables. They were at some party in some building and he _really_ didn't want to be there. He couldn't recall what it was for, but all he knew was that he was dreading it every waking minute of it. It seemed as if all the guests were joking and laughing and making fun of him, speaking down to him as if he were nothing more than a toddler.

He didn't recognize any of the people there either, nor did his mother if he read her correctly, but there they were. Mummy was pregnant and father was always busy. Father didn't even come with them because he had work. It was so confusing. What purpose did they have going to that party? With mean old people who laughed at him, and joked with mummy even though they really didn't know her?

Sometime between the music being turned up a couple of notches and glasses of beer being brought to their table, Mycroft began feeling ill. Mummy refused the drinks, even as she watched the people around her chugging glass after glass. He remembered briefly how mummy told him that her drinking and smoking would be bad for the baby, and that provided him with some comfort. At least his little brother wouldn't be bad, he figured.

After his head began spinning rapidly and his stomach gave a violent lurch, he finally spoke up. "Mummy, I don't feel good," Mycroft tugged at her dress sleeve and pouted up to her. She looked a bit relieved at that and placed a small kiss atop his forehead. She announced to the group that she had to leave. The old people around them started joking about it, laughing and jeering at the little boy as he clutched his mum's hand.

He was frustrated. Why were they laughing at him? Why wasn't mummy doing anything about it? He gave a questioning stare up to mummy as they hurried out of the building with that strange old lady in the shimmering dress, but it was returned with nothing more than a half-hearted smile.


	20. The Bee at the Door

**The Bee at the Door**

There was an ear-piercingly loud, high-pitched scream coming from the front of the house. Mycroft couldn't even imagine what might have caused it. All he wanted to do was bring Sherlock down to the park for a bit while mummy and father were out for shopping and work, respectively. "What? What, Sherlock?" He asked, running down the stairs at the same time the maid was rushing her way over from the kitchen.

A six year old Sherlock ran over to Mycroft and tugged at his sleeve anxiously. There were tears threatening to spill over with the words rushing out of his mouth faster than the older Holmes could catch all of it. "There's a huge bee out there and it's circling the porch and it went near my face when I tried to go out and I don't want to go out anymore it'll sting me and it'll hurt really really bad so _please_ don't make me go to the park!"

Mycroft sighed and the maid returned to her work without a single word. He petted the mop of curly black hair and guided him towards the door. A little whimper came from the boy as they stopped at the glass. "Look up. See? Remember how that tree blooms every year before they change to leaves?" At that Sherlock bobbed his head in agreement. "Well it's only looking for nectar from the flowers. If you leave it alone it won't bother you," he said.

The boy considered this for a moment before lifting his head to face his brother, still anxious as the bee circled around their porch. "You don't know that as a fact. All bees sting, don't they? That's what makes them bees," he argued, making Mycroft chuckle.

"Not all the time. Male bees don't have stingers."

At that Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion. He seemed to have been mulling over this information and decidedly came to the conclusion that it was, indeed, correct. "How can you tell if it's a male or female?"

Mycroft stared out to the bee in question as it made its way back over to the tree and landed on a flower. "Well is it collecting nectar?"

"Yes."

"Then it's a female."

Sherlock nodded his head, the logic far from lost on him. "I'm not going out then. It can sting me." With a cross of the arms he lifted his chin in defiance. Then it fell in an instant. "No! No!" He screamed frantically when Mycroft pushed the door open, just as the bee circled around the porch again. Mycroft watched and laughed as Sherlock ran up the stairs to his bedroom, shouting insults at him every step of the way.


	21. That Phase

**That Phase**

Mycroft had come down to visit for the weekend, something he only had the chance to do once every three months or so, given his admittedly important new position at his job. Mummy and father seemed happy to see him, greeting him with warm hugs and polite conversation, but not hide nor tail could be seen from Sherlock. Probably sulking up in his bedroom, Mycroft figured, dreading the time he'd be forced down to the dinner table to confront his older brother.

So he went up the stairs purposefully after his brother, listening to the sound of a door creaking open as he made it to the top. He stared down one end of the long hallway. To his unpleasant surprise, he found a pale, boney and frankly brazen Sherlock approach his way after stepping out of the washroom, hair dripping and sticking to his forehead with only a hand cupped to shield his decency. Mycroft let out a breath; his brother sure did know how to test his patience, even unknowingly.

He gave the teenager a scathing look. "_Please_ put some clothes on."

"Too lazy. Clothes are useless. Optional anyway." Sherlock tongued at his molars as he shrugged past his casually-dressed brother, not stopping his trek to the bedroom. "And don't tell me what to do in my own household."

"I will not allow you to go down those stairs without a shirt and trousers on," Mycroft announced regardless, standing stiffly in the hallway as he turned, trying not to grimace at his brother's bare arse. Sherlock only slammed his door in response. "You're fifteen. Only little children go through phases like this," he called out with a disapproving shake of the head. At least dinner should be fairly interesting, he supposed, if Sherlock decided to show up in all his glory. Wouldn't be the first time he did something just to spite his brother, and it would certainly not be the last.


	22. Simple Logic

**LittleMissMango: Ugh, I wish I could send a PM, but thank you so much for all your kind words, :) **

* * *

**Simple Logic**

Steely blue eyes peered over a shoulder, examining, scanning, trying to make sense out of the paper in his brother's hands. They were both sat on the floor with Mycroft hunched over, intent on the pages of homework and textbooks laid out in front of him. Black curls swept over his shoulder, followed quickly by the weight of his chin. All Sherlock could see was line after line of text and diagrams and processes, formulas for O6 and H12 and what? It looked like too too much. He hummed with a pout and whined, "Myc."

Mycroft rolled his eyes in return. "What is it?"

"I don't get it," he said, sounding as if admitting it was the most frustrating thing in the world.

Mycroft smirked as he tapped the eraser end of his pencil against paper a few times. "Well it's secondary school work, it's pretty confusing stuff."

"For you or me?"

"You." Sherlock let out a sound of annoyance at that, but quickly fell into silence, mesmerized by the way Mycroft's pencil was rapidly scratching across the page, creating formulas and drawing strange diagrams with words and numbers that seemed to have barely any meaning.

After a while Mycroft grew annoyed with the intrusive presence of his younger brother. As much as he wanted to kick the little devil out of his bedroom and be rid of him for good, mummy had asked of him to keep Sherlock entertained to avoid any destruction of property. He seemed to enjoy getting himself into trouble when he grew bored, and nobody wanted a repeat of the Christmas tree incident. "Here, take this and go sit over there." He handed Sherlock an old packet of notes on cell division and shooed him away towards the bed.

Sherlock begrudgingly took the packet and dropped to a sitting position on the wood paneled floor, resting his back against Mycroft's bed. As he read the material, a crease in between his eyebrows grew deeper and deeper. He worried his lip, trying to think, obviously trying to make sense of something he found rather perplexing.

Mycroft knew that look very well. "Something the matter?"

Sherlock glowered. "I don't get it," he repeated, louder and impossibly more petulant. Before Mycroft could even question it, a long rapid-fire stream of questions flew from his mouth, one barely distinguishable from the next. "It says that cells are all different sizes... Then how can something _smaller_ than a cell be considered non-living? What's smaller than a cell? What's the standard? Can there even _be_ a standard for the size of life? And if cells are made up of smaller parts, then how can a living thing be made up of non-living materials?"

"Whoa, slow down there," Mycroft chuckled. He thought for a while about all the questions that the boy had shot at him and tried to come up with a decent response. It successfully got his attention away from his homework, at least, and as much as it pained him to admit, he really didn't know the answer to any of his questions. "Science is tricky like that. Just don't look too closely into it, okay?"

"But _why_? There should be an answer, it doesn't make any sense!"

"... Shut up, how's that for an answer?"


	23. The Case of the Invisible Essay

**Elementary/primary/whatever-school teachers are assholes. End of discussion.**

* * *

**The Case of the Invisible Essay**

A seven year old Sherlock raised his hand, staring down to the dulled pencil he had just pulled out of his pencil case. It was his last one - the other students had probably nicked the other ones while he was out in the loo - and it needed badly to be sharpened. The lead tip was barely even there, being worn down to the surrounding wood. Sherlock examined a lined loose-leaf paper that laid on the desk before him next to the class' essay prompt. The assignment was to write a paper on something or another about what they did over the break. Almost as dull as his pencil.

When the teacher, Mrs. Goldstein, finally called on him, he lowered his hand and held it up to show her. "I need to sharpen my pencil, ma'am."

She kept her eyes on some papers in front of her as she scribbled notes on them, and all she said was a firm and final, "No."

He stirred in the chair. "But the sharpener is right over there," he argued, gesturing to a spare table not ten feet from where he sat. "Why? How am I supposed to do this?" With the pencil firmly in his grasp, he attempted to scribble some lines on the essay prompt. He held it up to show her, that there was barely anything to be seen on his paper and he couldn't possibly complete the essay with his current situation.

And that time she _did_ look over to him, but only to give him a patronizing raise of an eyebrow. "Your pencil's fine. Don't argue with me, young man, now please get to work." Sherlock sat there, mouth agape, forehead creased in anger and confusion. He then grit his teeth and turned his incredulous stare down to the papers before him, doing his very best to not lash out at Mrs. Goldstein. They already had problems with each other, unsurprisingly, for Sherlock's constant 'daydreaming' and his 'sharp tongue' and Mrs. Goldstein's quite apparent lack of understanding on cause and effect.

Oh well. It was her fault if anything, he figured. Then he pressed pencil to paper, weaving a tale of all that went on over his break.

During the first few lines there were some faint traces of graphite to be seen, but from there on down the page, his pencil left only the wood around it to make impressions on the lined paper. He couldn't bring himself to feel any amount of regret as he made a show of re-reading the paper, trying to spot any invisible errors he may or may not have made in his angry, hasty writing.

When Sherlock finally handed in the assignment, he had stapled the two pages together with as much force as he could manage. Then he bestowed a less-than-hidden sneer upon his teacher as he handed it over to her. He promptly sulked around school for the rest of the day.

Mycroft, mummy and father would certainly have a field day with this, with him being so _insolent_ towards his teacher, but he really just didn't care. It was Mrs. Goldstein's fault after all, for being such a horrid teacher and an even more horrid person. At least when he got home from school two days later, when the inevitable phone call finally made its way to the Holmes household, Mycroft had sided with him in the ensuing argument.

That's all he really cared about.


	24. Ear Piercing

**Ear Piercing  
**

Mycroft had noticed it before anybody else did. While it was covered fairly well by his unruly, long hair, he could still see a bit of metallic shine poking out from his cartilage. Even if he no longer lived in the Holmes household, he still kept tabs on his younger brother. If not him, then who?

As he made his way down the hallway, he thought about what he would say and what it all meant. He began to wonder if it was even something to be concerned about; it wasn't as if his brother was doing anything out of the usual. Teenaged rebellion was to be expected, especially from such a person as Sherlock Holmes. As soon as he stepped foot into the sitting room he received a loud, drawn out, "I'm busy."

Mycroft decidedly ignored it. He cast a resigned sigh down to his younger brother, who was sat cross-legged on one end of the sofa, a book propped up on a knee. After a minute or so of standing in quiet observance, Mycroft asked, "Why?"  
The teen was ignoring him, keeping his eyes on the book even after he ceased to read the text. Mycroft had just missed a smirk crack at the corners of Sherlock's lips when he turned to examine various paintings and decorative plates hanging up on the walls, clearly annoyed. That's the game he wanted to play. So be it. "_In Cold Blood_? I'm surprised you're not bored with-"

"Shut up. How they were murdered is as clear as day, I just have nothing better to do."

"Except get an ear piercing, quite obviously," Mycroft amended, sounding disinterested as he circled around the sitting room, which earned him a pointed glare and a lift of the chin. Sherlock let the book fall to the couch cushion in favour of his brother, who had his hands clasped behind his back as he continued to inspect the familiar sitting room.

The teenager glowered. "Problem? What's done is done, I don't care what mummy and father have to say about it."

"Do you like it?" The question seemingly came from out of nowhere as Mycroft gave him a questioning stare.

Sherlock met his gaze and let out a scoff. "If I got it then I obviously like it. It's not endangering my health, and nobody is going to notice it anyway." He shifted his position on the sofa so that he was leaning his back against the arm rest with a cross of the arms. Mycroft had taken to staring at a decorative plate on the opposite wall, examining all that he could about the Norman Rockwell scene staring back at him alongside a lamp.

Mycroft rocked back on his heels. "Not right away, but when you get a haircut they'll notice. While a cartilage piercing isn't considered 'gay' by society, you still know how father feels about it."

His words hung in the air, practically ringing in the wake of silence that followed. Real men weren't meant to get any sort of piercings, as father had told them both a long time ago. Ear piercings were feminine and his boys were _anything but_ feminine. Sherlock returned to his book with an expressionless face, while Mycroft was scanning over his body language and examining.

"That was rather the point." And with that Sherlock couldn't hold the blank face anymore; his lips curled upwards into a devious grin. "It'll anger him if he believes I'm gay. I live to disappoint, you know," he added by way of explanation, and Mycroft couldn't do anything but shake his head at his brother's antics.


	25. Dirty

**Dirty**

"Mum! Mum!" Sherlock yelled in a mantra, sprinting down the hallway with Mycroft right on his heels. Both of them were shoe-less, tracking mud and dirt and leaves across the nice wood flooring. Unfortunately, the two were much too preoccupied with other matters to even take notice.

They were racing towards the backyard deck, where mummy could be seen lounging on a beach chair. She had company over - pity - two of her girl friends, cold drinks in hand with their sunglasses on as they chatted away about nothing. The eight year old and the fifteen year old burst onto the large deck and stopped in front of their mother. They were panting and visibly upset with each other. Their clothes were muddied and sticking to their dirty skin.

She switched her gaze to the inside of the house, where she could very clearly see the mess they left in their wake. Annoyed and indignant, flipping her sunglasses up to the top of her head, she frowned at her sons. "You boys are like wild animals, what's going on here?" She demanded, sitting up straighter in her chair.

Sherlock was the first to speak up under their mother's harsh stare. He pointed an accusing finger over to his brother. "He started it."

Mycroft bristled at that. "What? No, absolutely not! _He_ was the one making fun of Samanth-"

"Wrong! Wasn't making fun of her-" Mycroft gave his younger brother a small shove, but quickly pulled his arm back when he realized that his mum was giving him that deathly stare. Her friends were looking on with detached amusement, he noted, and wanted to snap at them to just _look someplace else._ It would hardly help his case at all, however, especially with how livid their mother looked. Her cheeks were beginning to grow red, too. "I just said her face was only slightly better-looking than his."

Mummy's girl friends giggled at the eight year old's declaration. It probably had something to do with the way he was pouting, he decided. Mycroft himself had been looking very put-off by Sherlock's words. Their mother asked, voice a bit softer, "Who's Samantha?"

"Mycroft's girlfriend," Sherlock answered before his older brother could even get a chance.

Mycroft nodded his head in affirmation. "Yes."

"_I'm_ surprised he doesn't have a _boyfriend._"

Mycroft recoiled in shock at the same time their mother did, and he glared down to a giggling Sherlock. "Weird kid," he intoned, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He quickly switched to a new train of thought, no longer wishing to linger on the subject. "No, he was making fun of Samantha and I told him to stop. He wouldn't, so I started yelling at him-"

"Don't even say I threw it first-"

"You did!"

"Mummy he's lying again! He told me to shut up and threw his shoe at me and I fell into a mud puddle." He crossed his arms with a huff. Mummy's two guests seemed to have removed themselves from the discussion entirely and were talking to each other in hushed tones. About nothing, he figured. Mycroft mirrored Sherlock, looking down to both of their dirty sock-clad feet with silent amusement.

"He forgot to mention that he punched me first. And then he threw both of his _muddy_ shoes at me-"

"And _he_ forgot to mention that he shoved me back down into the mud when I stood up-"

"He was throwing shoes at me, what was I supposed to do?" Mycroft asked, incredulous, with a helpless shrug of the shoulders. "And anyway, he started flinging mud at me-"

"Enough!" Mummy stood up from her beach chair then, hands on her hips as she stared down to the both of them from under her nose. Pointing imperiously towards the hallway, she ordered, "Go clean everything up, fetch your shoes and apologize to each other for being so _rude. _When you've had a bath, I want the both of you to come back out here and apologize to Ms. O'Neill and Mrs. Ayers, too. Do you hear me?"

Sherlock and Mycroft silently curled into themselves, diverting their gazes to the floor. They mumbled in unison, "Yes ma'am." And their argument was long forgotten along with the dirt as they trudged away to go retrieve their shoes from the front yard. Sherlock might have returned Mycroft's shove on their journey over, but Mycroft just ignored it for his own sake.


	26. Not in the House

**Not in the House**

He was preoccupied with the book in his lap, leaning against the armrest of the couch, listening to the way mummy spoke on the phone alongside the sounds of the maid rummaging through pots and pans. He was sure that father was in the house, either in the study or his bedroom. Sherlock was most definitely in his bedroom, on the laptop most likely. Then the sound of his mum's voice grew nearer and nearer and she appeared in the entryway, keys in hand, her purse slung over a shoulder with the mobile against her ear.

He knew before she said anything - her purse, shoes and sunglasses said it all - that she was going out to the stores with a couple of her friends. "I'm stepping out for a bit, want me to pick you up anything, hon?" Then Sherlock came bounding down the stairs, an air soft gun in hand, with an innocent widening of his eyes as soon as he saw her. He had stopped not ten feet from where his older brother sat.

Mycroft still smiled politely at her and replied, "No, mummy."

"All right." She nodded towards Mycroft in acceptance. She then passed by Sherlock, petted his hair and cheek, gave one look down at his hands and said simply, "Not in the house, dear." Then she was gone, out the door, and Sherlock turned to him with a wide Cheshire grin.

He should've seen it coming. Should've acted. But then there was the click of a trigger and everything around them seemed to stop. His arm blossomed, radiated out in pain, and he screamed. "Ow! What the _fuck_?!" And Mycroft's relaxed composure diminished as he watched the eleven year old brat dart to the front door. "Go to hell, Sherlock!"

"Language!" Was the last thing he got as a response before Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him. Mycroft rubbed his arm, gritting his teeth at the sound of laughter that echoed from outside.


	27. Sherlock's First Kiss

**Thank you to my guest reviewers! All of you guys are amazing for keeping up with this story, so yeah, sorry that I've been taking a bit longer between updates, :)  
**

* * *

**Sherlock's First Kiss**

Sherlock scowled down at the sticky hand clutching his, dragging him to an unfamiliar backyard through a white fence door, with an out-of-ground pool and a bunch of concrete and overgrown grass.

The person attached to that hand was a weird neighborhood girl, Ashley, with her short light brown hair, freckles, constant chewing of gum and penchant for dressing like a boy. She didn't actually go to school around there, but she was always visiting her father in the summer and on alternating weekends during the school year, which left her plenty of time to become acquainted with the other kids in the area.

Unfortunately, she had taken a liking to Sherlock in particular, even after he pulled her hair for making fun of his name two years back on the playground.

Sherlock was ten now, and as much as Ashley swore, she was eleven years old and she was _not_ in grade seven like she tried to convince him of. As soon as she had dragged him over to the middle of her backyard, where there was a large concrete platform leading up to her back doors, she had stopped him in place next to a table. Then she had begun rambling on about something or another and he easily tuned her out.

He stared down and around to the concrete, observing the colourful pink and yellow and blue drawings cluttering the space. There were cats and stars and rainbows, alongside space ships, aliens, superheroes and the like, and they were _very_ interesting. Much more interesting than whatever Ashley was going on about, though he did hum and nod whenever it was considered 'appropriate'.

Then the eleven year old girl raised her voice a bit and coughed. "Okay, now close your eyes. And don't peek!" She added the last part with a sheepish grin.

Sherlock reluctantly followed her orders, eyes shut and his hands clasped behind his back, waiting.

The kiss was so light that he had to question if it ever even happened at all. By the time he opened his eyes, though, she was already running off towards the pool giggling. It left him standing there stock-still next to the table, in the middle of all her colourful chalk drawings, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do next.

In the end he'd just bolted out the fence door and never returned to that unfamiliar backyard ever again.


	28. Mycroft's First Kiss

**I saw the opportunity. I took the opportunity.**

* * *

**Mycroft's First Kiss**

A six year old Mycroft stared up to the gates, the entrance to the haunted house. He was pretty excited to be there even if he was shivering in the mid-October air and wrapped up in layers upon layers of clothing. Mummy and father had agreed to bring him there for his birthday, of course and it was really a great present. He'd heard from his classmates, as dumb as they were, that this haunted house in particular was the best. It was supposed to actually be scary.

It was. In a way. There were loud and sudden noises, 'faulty' lights, people popping up from corners and dark spots as they screamed and a bunch of silly little props scattered about. Rubber snakes that looked real upon first glance, swarms of fake spiders in corners and the like. As obvious as it all was, there was still the element of surprise and he was really beginning to enjoy himself.

Sometime during the walk Mycroft had gotten separated from mummy and father. He had stayed back in the 'kitchen' to point and laugh at a tall, muscular man in clown's makeup and an apron, who seemed to be very indifferent to the six year old's taunts. By the time he'd made it out through the back door he'd started to get worried.

A corn maze was set before him about ten feet ahead, god knew if he'd get lost or if he would ever get to see his parents again.

After a moment of debate, he figured that it would be best to just go after his parents instead of waiting around with that stupid clown chef back in the haunted house's kitchen. If anything, the kid had determination to get away from that silly muscular freak who didn't even seem to listen to his laughs and jeers. So that's how he had braved through the first couple of turns.

Then another sudden scream as a person popped out in front of him.

He had yelped in surprise, stumbling backwards. Upon second inspection, she actually looked to be around his age. She had long wavy brown hair that stuck to her face, which was covered with fake bruises and blood. Had a necklace on? Wasn't that a bit out of character? Clothing was dirtied and covered in more of the fake blood, and to his surprise, she let out a good-hearted laugh. "Should'a seen the look on your face," she taunted.

Mycroft just smiled and gave her a look. "Your face looks worse than mine."

"Nuh-uh!" The girl crossed her arms with an imperious sniff. "_Duh_, It's makeup."

Mycroft didn't retaliate, because of course he knew it was makeup and he actually had other matters on his mind at that moment. "Hey, I don't know where my mum and father went. Can you help me outta here?" He shuffled around a bit, staring down to the ground and blushing furiously at the fact that he had just asked a _girl_ for help. Even if she was working there and was a part of the haunted house, it was still embarrassing and it made her laugh again as well.

"Of course, you silly. Follow me," she said, clutching at his wrist as she dragged him through the maze like an expert.

Well she definitely knew where she was going, because it took them less than three minutes to clear the whole thing. Outside the corn maze about twenty feet away, Mycroft found his parents talking to some burly man in a plaid shirt and jeans, and quickly pulled the both of them back into the maze.

He smiled as he stared down to her necklace, which read her name in an elegant golden font. "Thanks, _Samantha."_

"You're _welcome_... Wait what's your name? How did you know mine?"

All he did was point a finger at her necklace, and her eyes immediately lit up in recognition. She then smiled over to him and played around with the charm for a bit, he figured it was a silent thank you because she looked as if he'd just found something for her. "I'm Mycroft."

"That's a silly name." She stuck her tongue out at him while he just rolled his eyes. He was used to that sort of response, because how could he not be? Ignoring it, he turned back around in the general direction of his parents.

"I think I have to go now," he said reluctantly. Something had ouched his hands, then he looked down to realize that she had wrapped her small fingers around his. He tried hiding his smile before pressing a shy kiss to her lips. Then they both let go of each others hands with laughter, and the two sped off in opposite directions, not once looking back at each other in embarrassment and bashfulness.


	29. Those Stupid Violin Lessons

**Those Stupid Violin Lessons  
**

Mrs. Andrews was a short, middle-aged blonde woman, brown eyes, with glasses and nimble fingers. Current pianist and former violinist, unmarried, works as an elementary school teacher, had a muffin for breakfast - normally has muffins for breakfast - and likes to read. Kind smile, cheery disposition but rather quiet and compliant. Very easy-going, likes to be on good terms with everybody she meets, willing to make compromises.

Sherlock hadn't found her all that terribly interesting the first lesson. Their first meeting was nothing short of a bad start, merely because it was Mycroft who had chosen her and Sherlock was used to going out of his way to upset his older brother.  
After seven months of rude retorts and clipped responses, Mrs. Andrews was still around and surprisingly, Sherlock had grown fond of the woman sometime during the end of the second month. Even with her plainness and all.

She was reliable and quiet, not demanding at all with her lessons like some of his past violin instructors had been.

She allowed him to take the reins and do what he wished during most of their time together, only asking for him to practice at least four times a week. She only came over twice a week, anyway. He had the rest of the time to play for his own benefit. Tuesdays and Fridays were special days, though, so he wanted to get as much out of them as he could.

So lately he had been asking for improv days where they played together, the violin and the piano while they tried to find a decent-sounding combination with their improvisational playing. Normally he would want to do it alone, but there was something comforting about Mrs. Andrews and the way she played the piano alongside him, as he picked up the violin and let himself wander around his mind palace in total peace.

Today Mrs. Andrews had suggested something that he wasn't exactly thrilled about.

So there they were, sat in a comfortable silent companionship, locked in a stare-down. They were in one of the various rooms of the Holmes household, Sherlock poised on a stool with his violin case at his side and Mrs. Andrews across the room at an ebony piano, arms crossed.

It was only five minutes later from when she stepped through the front door, when she suggested that he practice some simple compositions. It made his face turn sour. "No." The response was short and brusque, but totally expected.

Ms. Andrews, with her dark green blouse and black trousers, hair pulled back in a bun, gave her pupil a purse of the lips. Sherlock just sat there defiantly, the violin still not yet taken out of its case and the bow clutched in a hand as he crossed his arms. It was to be expected, she supposed.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling before fondly bringing them back down to Sherlock, who had made it a point to not move a single inch on his stool. The youth may have been rather difficult, but if Ms. Andrews was anything, she was a woman of considerable patience. "Yes. I know they're simple, but we can't keep having improv days, you know."

"Yes we can. Improv days help the most. I thought we already went over this, I'm not playing for anything other than myself."

Mrs. Andrews gave him a warm, hesitant smile. "Not even for me?"

And with that, Sherlock softened up considerably and began shifting around in his seat, mumbling and coughing as he took the violin out of its case and began half-heartedly flouncing out the most boring composition he'd done in a while. He had to put on a show of course, to prove a point about how he _really_ didn't need to be doing this right now. All for her, though, so it was okay. It was fine because she was satisfied with him at the moment and it was really worth it.


	30. Issues

**Issues  
**

Mycroft had indeed lost some weight. Close to one stone and six pounds, actually, and he couldn't have been any happier about it. People had noticed, too. Sherlock because he noticed everything, mummy, Samantha, the maid and a few mates at school. He was happy, healthier than he'd been in a while and probably grew a bit more arrogant and confident because of it.

The last person to impress with the news was father. He was away on extended business in the states for something important, and Mycroft only got the chance to inform him of his progress over the phone. He sounded genuinely happy for his son, congratulating him and such over phone-call, but he still had yet to be able to see his weight loss in person. That was all going to change, however, in a few hours. Father was due back home that night having boarded his plane six or so hours prior.

Mycroft faintly recalled his nine year old brother warning him to not get his hopes up for father's return. That he would most likely only shoot him down despite all his efforts, wouldn't even notice - or wouldn't even care - but what did Sherlock know?

It was rather dark out, Sherlock was hiding in his bedroom pretending to sleep. Mycroft, mummy and the maid hurried out to help father with his luggage. They greeted him and asked about his visit to the states, and how he was feeling and oh, you look _exhausted_.

The maid poured some tea as he returned to his arm chair, relaxing comfortably in his house once again. He kicked off his shoes and accepted the cup of tea, weaving a tale of all the things he saw in the states, and spent a considerable amount of time on explaining how absolutely _backwards_ the culture over there was. Mycroft could've sworn he saw Sherlock perched atop the stairs listening intently to what their father had to say.

After mummy retired to bed and the maid left for home, father sat with Mycroft, discussing the more business-oriented side of his visit. Sherlock was probably still eves-dropping; the kid couldn't keep his nose firmly in his own business, it seemed.

When Mycroft stood up to get the both of them a glass of water, that's when it happened.

"Hm. I thought you lost weight." It was said with a tone that he couldn't quite identify - disappointment, perhaps - and it made Mycroft freeze in his tracks. _Oh_. Everything about him instantly deflated. _Of course_.

What made it worse was that Mycroft really did care what father thought, he looked up to him and wanted to impress him and receive praise. He wanted father to be proud of him, above all else, but of course he had failed.

Then it felt as if his knees were about to give out from a lack of oxygen and a startling disorientation. He had to clutch onto the kitchen counter, fingernails scraped for purchase when it felt as if the floor just vanished from beneath him, his feet unsure of where they should be in the wake of nothingness.

Yet he didn't dare let it show. Holmes men were made of stronger stuff than that, he reminded himself as he pulled himself together. He came back with two glasses of water and a cool mask of indifference, and his feet were resolutely on planet earth. In the back of his mind he hoped that his younger brother was still listening from the spot on the stairs; he hoped that he felt proud for his powers of deduction.

Because Sherlock had been so right, and it hurt.


	31. The Floor is Lava

**The Floor is Lava**

"No, not fair." A four year old Sherlock was perched atop a side table in the sitting room, arms crossed over his chest and a half-smile-half-pout on his lips. The smile was still in place because of how_ fun_ the game was, and how excited he had been to be able to play like that. He had been jumping from one piece of furniture to another, while his older brother had the ability to just step over from the arm rest to the side table to the coffee table. It was obviously a severe disadvantage for Sherlock in the little game of theirs. "Your legs are longer, you can jump better."

All Mycroft did was grin at his younger brother. Apparently it had spurred an idea on for the kid, considering that he began practically twitching with excitement.

"Time out!" He called, gesturing a 'T' shape with his two hands before he jumped from his position and ran over to the couch, pulling on a blanket that was draped over the back. He laid it out as best as he could over the sitting room carpet, and Mycroft gave him a strange look.

"What're you doing?"

Sherlock stood up straight and pointed imperiously down to the blanket. "We can jump on that now, because it's covering the lava." Mycroft was about to protest, that it wasn't in the rules and he couldn't just _do_ that, but then he realized how ingenious the idea had been and left it alone. The two continued to play, and Mycroft was_ very_ impressed with Sherlock, even when he accidentally knocked over a lamp amidst all the lava and tumbling and jumping and laughter.


	32. Late

**Late**

A sixteen year old Mycroft had arrived back home close to midnight, smelling of stale sweat and something reminiscent of a bonfire. And rightfully so, considering he and a couple of his mates had decided to ditch the main party and start making s'mores in the backyard about halfway through. It wasn't as if they were all actually there to celebrate school's end, they just wanted an excuse to hang out and stay out late on a nice, relaxing, warm evening... Okay, perhaps the fact that there was no more homework or test grades or exams to worry about _was_ a motive for their little get-together, as well.

Perhaps a couple of his friends had been smoking cigarettes, and perhaps he had a fag or two himself, but who really cared? There were no actual drugs involved and a couple of cigarettes weren't about to make him drop down dead within minutes, so it was all fine.

He shut the front door behind him, not bothering to be quiet about it at all. There was simply no need; the sound would barely get as far as the kitchen, let alone upstairs. As soon as father appeared in the main room, Mycroft offered him a short greeting as he laid his bag down on the floor.

One of the first things he noticed was the way that there had been no sound of feet pattering either down the stairs or from the kitchen. Therefore, it seemed as if the only logical option was that his father had been _waiting_ for Mycroft in the hallway.

That was the first thing that struck a chord of annoyance within him.

When old eyes shifted down to the bag, offering no emotion but fully conveying suspicion in every aspect ever, the annoyance struck even harder.

Then when father took a few long meaningful strides towards him, roughly grabbed at his shirtsleeve and leaned down to sniff at his son's hair, that was all it took to snap that chord of annoyance right in half.

"_Hey,_ get the fuck off me," Mycroft protested in outrage, trying to shoulder his way out of his father's grasp. He may or may not have been roughly slapped across the face for that, but it didn't matter to Mycroft in the slightest. Father gave him an accusing glare as if prodding him for some sort of explanation. The annoyance sparked up even more heatedly at his lack of actual words.

Mycroft shot a pointed stare in return. "It was a bonfire, so don't even bother to check my eyes," he snapped, picking his bag up before he made his way past a silent and strangely passive father.

He spited the man to hell and back; was there no trust between them anymore? Why did that encounter even need to have taken place? Mycroft made his way up the stairs, lost in thought, feet dragging across the carpet in heavy agitation.


	33. Climbing Up the Walls

**s3 teaser trailer tho. Let's celebrate this glorious occasion with stupid kid things, :)  
**

* * *

**Climbing Up the Walls**

"Hey Myc, look what I can do," Sherlock's eager voice called out from the hallway.

Mycroft turned to regard his brother from his spot on the couch, nestled up in a throw blanket with a book resting casually on his thighs. The sight that greeted him was certainly _interesting_, to say the least, and he smirked wryly. "What are you doing?" He asked, for there was Sherlock, wild black curls and an impish grin, limbs spread out with both hands and feet braced against either side of the hallway's walls and his head just about touching the ceiling.

Sherlock shot his older brother a look. "I think it's pretty obvious. Now wait, _this_ is even better." He shifted positions, moving his body up further until his back was pressed up against the ceiling. A confident narrowing of the eyes greeted Mycroft. "I'm like, a well-trained spy or something."

"Too bad you won't be able to do that when you're older," Mycroft said, having resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh yeah? And why not?"

"You'll be too heavy. You'll break holes in the wall."

Apparently the kid didn't believe him because it warranted an imperious scoff up from the ceiling. "Wanna bet?"

Mycroft cast his stare back down to his book, shaking his head slowly. "I don't want to take your money," he replied, voice sounding as if the very thought had physically pained him. He turned his head back up to the little kid, who was sticking to the ceiling not too unlike a starfish to a rock, with a sorrowful quirk of an eyebrow.

"Ha-ha," Sherlock intoned back, sneering at his older brother, yet nonetheless he began dismantling himself from the white ceiling with cautious and deliberately slow movements. Mycroft had half a mind to go stand under his younger brother in case something were to go awry, but the ridicule he'd receive from Sherlock for that small gesture just wouldn't be worth it, so he stayed in place with bated breath praying that Sherlock was as agile as he claimed.

Fortunately Sherlock had managed to get his feet back down on the carpet without any mishaps. Mycroft exhaled a deep breath. "But I'm serious. You won't be able to in a few years."

"We'll see about that," Sherlock grumbled as he began walking up the stairs to his bedroom. There was just no arguing with him, as Mycroft had learned a very long time ago, and he didn't want the headache of trying to explain it. In the end he'd just rolled his eyes and returned to the book in his lap.


	34. Twenty Euros

**Feel free to imagine this as either Mycroft or Sherlock. I purposefully didn't use any specific names so that I could leave it up to you. Oh, and there's a trigger warning for this chapter.**

* * *

**Twenty Euros**

He was sat on the edge of the bed, legs dangling off the sides with his feet not quite touching the carpet below. He straightened out his shirt collar, where a large and calloused hand had been previously clutching at not two minutes prior. Now the hands were rummaging through a dresser drawer, the top one of father's dresser where he knew father liked keeping all of his important things such as his wallet, money, cigars, watches, lighters, bills, expensive pens, parchment and the like.

Useless junk to a kid, yet there he was for some reason perched at the edge of his parent's bed while the older man riled through his top-most drawer.

Father didn't think that he _stole_ something, did he? Internally, he cringed away from father's angry disposition; shoulders hunched, face twisted in a terrifying sneer, fists clenching and unclenching as he searched, muscles flexing and a large vein - the external carotid artery, if he remembered correctly - bulging from his neck.

"I swear to god, boy..."

"So help me if I don't..."

Was all he could make out of the man's useless mumblings and murmurs. It was horrifying, to be honest, considering the door had been locked behind them and nobody else was home even if he did happen to escape past father's looming figure.

Hell, he didn't even know what the man wanted from him. He'd just barked at him to get up and then promptly dragged him down the hallway, only to be trapped in a cage with a large, furious animal.

He shrunk further down into the mattress every time a dirty look was shot back in his direction, which was growing increasingly more frequent with each passing minute. A silence fell over the room, the only sounds being items shifted about and papers being shuffled. Two angry fists were suddenly brought down onto the dresser top and a slew of curses flew from father's mouth.

His throat was constricting in what felt more and more like panic, and he cringed away in anticipation of what was to follow.

Then suddenly father's face relaxed. His shoulders fell. A hand fell to his side, pinching a single blue and white bank note loose between his fingers.

He was then being ushered out of the bedroom with that same calloused hand placed warmly over his shoulder. "Okay, sorry kiddo. Go on and play now." He got the distinct impression that father was most definitely _not_ sorry, but he just let it go and the two of them disappeared into their own separate places, vague fear and confusion milling through his thoughts for the rest of the day.


	35. Learn Something

**Heh. I'm up to 69 reviews as of now, so...**

* * *

**Learn Something**

The brothers were sat across from each other at a table in the library, Sherlock having just gotten off of school. Father had suggested that the two do some studying, and that morning Mycroft wasn't exactly in an arguing mood, so there they were, and it was clear that neither were particularly pleased with the arrangement. Both Mycroft and Sherlock had their arms crossed, slouched in the seat and a sour look graced their features.

The older Holmes was the first to speak up. "Let's start with social studies-"

"Why don't we start with _your_ work?"

"Because you can't help me with my work and father's more concerned about you than me." The_ because I do my schoolwork properly and you don't _went unsaid, but it was more or less implied. Sherlock might have been smart, shockingly so, but he wasn't smart enough to know when to pick his battles quite yet. "So take out your book, and apparently the chapter starts on page sixty-nine."

Snickering came from one table over, a group of boys with playing cards scattered all over the wooden surface, and Mycroft couldn't help but roll his eyes. Poor decision on his part, because the action had caught Sherlock's attention and the textbook was long forgotten. "What are they laughing about?"

"Don't worry, they're just being childish."

"Does the number mean something?"

"It's nothing important," Mycroft insisted as he fixed his younger brother with an annoyed look.

Sherlock was having none of it, apparently, and he crossed his arms with a raise of the chin. "There's a computer right over there. You can either tell me what it means - because it obviously means something - or I can look it up myself."

A sigh. That would be less than pleasant, and he realized that he was essentially trapped so he just gave in with a mumbled, "Fine. It's sex."

"What? That doesn't even make sense." Sherlock's head tilted to the side in confusion, and Mycroft gave him another look.

"It's more of a position."

"Oh." The silence that followed almost made Mycroft want to smirk, because there wasn't a single doubt in his mind that Sherlock was trying to imagine just how exactly that was supposed to make sense. With a scrunch of his nose, Mycroft snatched his brother's backpack and pulled out both his social studies textbook and folder, coming across a few loose-leaf papers with questions and such regarding the current lesson.

After ignoring the angry protests coming from Sherlock, he slid everything back across the table to their rightful owner as he began, "So now onto the flags-"

"Mycroft, I don't care what the stupid flags symbolize. I think we're supposed to learn about the lakes and geography in a few months. Let's get to that, it's somewhat useful. And I already know how to read a map so we don't even have to go over that one."

"We can't just skip ahead, you need to get your homework done for _this_ lesson," Mycroft drawled out as if he'd explained that point thousands of times, and honestly, he probably has.

Sherlock only huffed and stood his ground. "But it's useless information!"

"The homework needs to be finished anyway."

"Then you do it for me."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft glared, and Sherlock glared right back. Both of them knew that they were fighting over something ridiculous and that the other had no intentions on budging, but Mycroft was essentially ordered to make sure that his younger brother completed his homework. Enough said, he was _not_ about to get in trouble with father over it. So instead of trying to impose his will, Mycroft just switched tactics. "I'll give you the answers to your homework. You just have to write it down, okay?"

He watched as Sherlock considered the proposal, and eventually, the curly-haired kid nodded as he got out a pencil. Thank _god_.


	36. Smoke in the Study

**Smoke in the Study  
**

When Mycroft got home from school, it was always the same routine. He would get off the bus, walk the path down to the house and let himself in. The maid would leave cookies out for him in the kitchen and he'd normally take two. Then he'd hurry up the stairs, deposit his schoolbag in his bedroom before heading over to the study to say hello, to let father know that he was home.

There would always be a strong, pervasive smell of cigar smoke coming from behind that closed door when he stopped by, but by the time mummy came home the scent would always be much weaker. It was still there, though. The strangest part was somehow neither mummy nor the maid had ever noticed it.

The problem was that they had a one year old child, the nursery being not three doors down from the study, and there father was smoking like a chimney every day. Mycroft couldn't honestly say that he hated anything more than that little gem of a fact.

It wouldn't have been a cause for concern, Mycroft thought to himself, if father hadn't told mum that he quit. Because if he'd ever learned anything from his father over the years, it was that lying is most definitely bad.


	37. Intelligent Conversation

**Mycroft did say that Sherlock has the brain of a philosopher, so that was my inspiration for the way this chapter ended up, :)**

** Now for a special announcement: If you're into Twilight - or just some really cool AU stories - you should totally check out my boo, xSuchSweetNothingx. She has some _amazing_ fics with these ridiculously great plots and ideas, and personally, I find it hard to not enjoy her writing. As a bonus she updates much more frequently than I do, haha. **

**We keep each other motivated, and not to mention that without her I wouldn't have even started writing in the first place. I couldn't ask for a better friend, :) **

* * *

**Intelligent Conversation**

Sherlock and Mycroft were sat on the front porch as far away from each other as they could manage, watching the figure of mummy and father's car retreat down the driveway. They were off to some important meeting of father's, most likely for business-related things judging by the suit, briefcase and newly trimmed hair, and especially considering the fact that no children were invited to this event. Not that either of the brothers wanted to go anyway.

So there they were after being given instruction by the maid to stay out of the house for a couple of hours. She had to clean the oven, apparently, and they agreed that staying away from that smell would be great.

There was silence for a few minutes, just the sound leaves rustling and wind blowing and birds chirping, before the two started throwing deductions back and forth with each other about father.

Sherlock stood up and paced around a bit while Mycroft was content to just sit and relax.

The clipped fingernails, how could somebody not notice them - And his shoes were polished so much they could be a solar reflector - But_ the ring_! He keeps playing with it, pretty obvious that he wants to be able to take it off easily - For later, when he ditches mum - It's so obvious that he's trying to impress somebody else - Because of the cologne, right? Mum doesn't like that cologne on him - Exactly!

Then somehow the conversation ended up veering off to Mycroft's schoolwork and Sherlock really began immersing himself with it. Mycroft's biology class had been studying something about cloning and sheep and mice, and then inevitably the discussion of human cloning came up between the brothers.

Sherlock had paced about for a while in silence as he thought, then finally stopped in front of Mycroft with a grin. "They wouldn't_ actually_ be a clone of you, you know. Genetically, of course they're similar but in every other aspect ever they're completely different."

Mycroft raised a brow that prompted Sherlock to explain himself.

"A clone is an _exact_ copy of another living thing, right?" The younger brother paused for affirmation, and Mycroft simply nodded in agreement. "So okay sure, within the first couple seconds they'll be exactly like you. But as soon as they start living and interacting with the environment around them, they become a new person. New experiences, different reactions, differing opinions, new memories, new cells being made that aren't found in the original."

Impressed, Mycroft smiled and nodded. "Well that's one way of looking at it. But they still have the same genetic materials, so they're still technically alike, no matter how much the personalities differ."

"... Yeah, that's another thing. Can't guarantee they'll even have the same temperament as you. Waste of time, waste of money and a waste of life."

"Sherlock are you even listening to what I'm saying? As long as they share the same exact DNA, they're still your copy. They're not cloning your personality, they're just cloning your DNA."

"But the brain would be different!"

"DNA..."

Sherlock bristled at his older brother's words and sat down on the concrete pathway right where he had previously stood. He crossed his arms and pouted, raising his chin up to pointedly look in the opposite direction. He clearly no longer wished to go down that line of conversation with his brother, so he said the only thing that he could say: "Shut up, Mycroft."


	38. Nothing Wrong Here,

**Happy Birthday to me! What's a better present than some good old meta? And next chapter will definitely be going into more detail on the subject, js.**

* * *

**Nothing Wrong Here**

It had been nagging at him all day. A few pieces of paper stapled together, a graph here, a chart there, and it was enough to make him worry himself half to death. The silence was killing him, especially with the fact that both of their parents weren't talking about it and neither was Sherlock.

Anyway, he doubted that father had even consulted mummy about it. Mummy certainly wouldn't have agreed to _that_, that offending paperwork contained in father's dark brown briefcase, which explained all sorts of different reasons for why his younger brother acted the way that he did. To be honest, Mycroft hadn't seen much of a difference between the way Sherlock acted compared to any other children his age.

The lack of social skills was due to improper socialization, most of which the blame could be placed upon their parents. The lack of social etiquette, now that was more of a choice.

Getting along with other people was never his top priority; it was never deemed important, quite like the solar system or the history of England.

Sure, Sherlock might have had some scary intelligence for a person his age, but that was the extent of it. The way Mycroft saw it, both he and his brother just operated on a different wavelength than the rest of the population. They understood each other, and really, nobody else could ever understand _them_.

As the whole family sat in a restaurant for one reason or another, Mycroft couldn't help but switch suspicious glances from one parent to the other. He spared a few annoyed stares for his brother, mostly to convey that _he knew_ and he was definitely unhappy about it on Sherlock's behalf.

When mummy announced that she had to excuse herself, Sherlock made a hasty retreat with her to the restrooms. Of course he knew and of course Big Brother could make everything all right again. He was under no illusion that Sherlock actually cared about it, but still and all, this was just ridiculous.

He watched as the two walked out of earshot, disappearing behind two separate doors. And then he pounced. Mycroft gestured towards the briefcase at father's feet with a tilt of his head and a raise of the eyebrows, anger getting the better of him. "I know what you have in there, now why did you take him to a psychiatrist?"

"You went in my study, boy?"

"That doesn't even matter right now," Mycroft snapped. "What _matters_ is that Sherlock shows nothing even close to having aspergers." He paused for a second. "Well maybe a little. But not enough to make a solid diagnosis," he added hurriedly, glaring up to father who just continued to eat.

Eventually he gave him a dismissive wave of a hand. "I think a specialist would know more about this than you."

"Apparently not!" They shared a look, and for a second Mycroft had the thought of throttling his father, just for the smug expression he wore when he spoke up next.

"Look, we both know the kid has problems. I just wanted to know what exactly was up with him."

"There's nothing _up_ with him." He gave a disbelieving huff. "He's just an atypical kid, he doesn't care enough to try and be 'normal'."

"Mycroft-"

"He's way too smart for his own good. He could probably rig the test to fit whatever he wants to be classified as."

"Now you're just giving him too much credit."

He smiled tightly. "I still wouldn't put it past him." Mycroft paused for a few seconds to contemplate the expression that flickered across father's face before continuing, "But just look at the list of criteria, he doesn't fit-" He was cut off by the two figures of Sherlock and mummy approaching the table. Apparently the older man understood and turned down to his dinner. Mycroft gave one final look then followed father's lead, turning his own head down to the plate in front of him.

"We'll talk later," father murmured, and Mycroft just grit his teeth. Once when they leave the restaurant, Mycroft realized, they will no longer by trapped by the safety of social convention. Yeah that was sure to be one hell of a civil discussion.


	39. With One Exception

**Should I apologize for the long wait? Because it's been close to three weeks since I've updated, so I really hope that you guys haven't forgotten about me... (͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)**

* * *

**With One Exception**

As soon as they all got home, when Sherlock was sent up to bed and mummy was sat in the living room, pretending to be oblivious when she really wasn't, Mycroft followed father into his study. They sat on opposite sides of a dark oak desk with a bunch of paperwork, folders, a computer, and that hateful brown briefcase between them.

The briefcase had been popped open, then father slid a few pieces of paperwork over to his eldest son. He sat back with folded arms while Mycroft re-read the sheets of paper with graphs and charts, and little check marks penned in alongside the unintelligible scribble that was so common amongst doctors.

As Mycroft read on, he shook his head. "This is still ridiculous."

"So are you, right now," father quipped, a strangely amused expression lingering on his face which Mycroft decided that he really wasn't fond of. It reminded him of that smug look he wore earlier in the restaurant. How loathsome. "Let's get on with this. Tell me why we're all wrong."

Mycroft let out a deep breath in order to calm himself down. "First off, he doesn't have any trouble in social situations. He knows what he's doing, believe me, he just doesn't care what people think or feel or whatever. He's examining the people and things around him a lot of the time, couldn't be arsed to act appropriately. He doesn't think that part is important."

"How would you know that's not his normal behaviour?" Father's brows creased together as he leaned forward in his seat, and it painted the perfect picture of legitimate curiosity. Mycroft allowed himself to bask in it, if only for a few seconds.

"Because when he's just around me or anybody else he thinks is worth his time, he's not as awkward or distant. I'm observant, too," he added before continuing on in a rather superior tone, "you're only watching him in an unfamiliar environment with people he doesn't care about."

"Is that so?"

Mycroft nodded sharply, eyes narrowed as he switched his glance between father and the pieces of paper in his hands. "And he may have an odd way of speaking sometimes, but I think he's got that from me. Doesn't count. Plus," he said, voice hurried, "his interests are pretty wide. He doesn't like staying on one subject for too long because that's _boring_. He mostly focuses on science-related subjects, but that's not limiting him to one specific thing, is it?"

Here he waited for an answer, even if the question was rhetoric, but either way father just sat there sourly without a word. Mycroft sighed, hands starting to shake with an unidentifiable emotion. Anger seemed probable. "And obviously he plays the violin, too. He's interested in creating his own pieces, while if he _did_ have aspergers he'd probably only be extremely invested in, oh, I don't know, the strings. Shall I go on?"

"No, thank you, that's well enough." Father scoffed, looking a bit ruffled about the whole thing. "You're still not a professional."

"So? I'm still his brother, I know him better than a professional," he said evenly, albeit with a bit of a bite on that last word, and for once, father didn't have anything to say to that.


	40. No Mycrofts Allowed

**No Mycrofts Allowed**

Mycroft stared disdainfully at Sherlock's door. On the opposite side, the younger Holmes had taken to his violin yet again and he seemed to have no intention of stopping any time soon. It had started out as a decent melody - it sounded reminiscent of Bach's chaconne No.2 in D minor, he thought - but then it evolved into something sadder, if it were even possible, and then finally into the terrible screeching that was assaulting his ears as he banged on the door.

"Stop it already," Mycroft yelled, eying the obnoxiously bright paper sign stapled to the door with a shake of the head. It was a warning shade of orange, was in the standard size, and in large bolded letters it spelled out 'No Mycrofts Allowed'.

It had initially been hung up about five years prior after a heated row between the two, and back then it was only a piece of white printer paper with the words written in angry sharpie, hung up with tape.

Then over the years it had become something of a joke to Sherlock. White paper had been replaced with the glaring orange, the hand-written words turned into a large printed font and the tape was exchanged for something a bit more permanent.

There were just no words.

Mycroft had to cover his ears for a particularly rough few scrapes of a violin bow, and it made him kick at the door with rage. "Would it kill you to _pretend_ like you learned how to play that thing?"

About five seconds of silence followed.

"Go away Mycroft."

Just as quickly as it ended, it started back up again. Mycroft let out a frustrated sound, then drew in a breath, about to let his younger brother know just what he thought of him as he reached out for the doorknob. But then Sherlock beat him to the punch. The annoying kid on the opposite side of the door had yelled over his screeching instrument, "Nope, read the sign."

Mycroft retracted his hand and glared daggers at the orange paper, entirely unsure about which method he'd use to kill his brother.


	41. The Red Sock

**The Red Sock**

He was running late, he was running late, his alarm clock didn't go off, he was going to miss the bus and why the absolute _hell_ couldn't he find a clean pair of socks? Mycroft was anxiously rummaging through his bedroom, dressed in only a collared shirt and a pair of boxers thus far.

He was trying to simultaneously get all of his school books together, pull up a pair of trousers and search for the rest of his attire, all while trying to figure out how he was going to eat breakfast.

The morning just wasn't working out in his favour, to say the least.

Apparently their maid had forgot to include his clothing in the wash the other day because when he opened his sock drawer, it was empty save for a few lone socks without a matching pair, alongside some forgotten, stained t-shirts. Damn.

Then he heard sock-clad footsteps walking the hallway, unmistakably his younger brother's given the lightness of their step and the sound of their gait. "Sherlock," he called out. The footfalls wavered.

A few beats later, his door creaked open and Mycroft was greeted with a sour eight year old glaring at him through sleep-hazy eyes. "Wha_t_?" The tone was raspy, grumpy and it made Mycroft's face fall into a grim frown.

"Well since you're already up, I want you to go check the laundry room for a pair of my socks." He threw his school bag onto the bed then finally finished buttoning his trousers and spun around, scanning the room for anything else he might've missed in his haste.

"We all want things."

Mycroft paused in his tracks to let out a sharp breath. "Please. I'm running late and you don't have to be at school for another two and a half hours."

"I don't care."

"I'll tell mum you're the one who put a dead rat in her purse."

"Then _I'll_ tell father why his whiskey is missing." Mycroft shot a venomous look over to his brother. As infuriating as it was to have Sherlock so disagreeable in the morning - every morning, really - Mycroft could understand it. He was much the same way himself, albeit for a much shorter period of time.

He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. "Just please get me a clean pair of socks. I'll convince mummy to get you that encyclopedia of birds you wanted." And with that Sherlock slammed the door closed and Mycroft could hear him stalk off towards the laundry room, grumbling to himself all the while. Still in a foul mood, then.

By the time his bedroom door opened again Mycroft had gotten everything together and in place, aside from the obvious of socks and shoes, of course. He seemed prepared and ready to go.

What he wasn't expecting when he turned, however, was a ball of red being propelled at his face.

"Ow _fuck_!" It hit him right in the eye, before he could even do so much as close them or flinch away. And it stung. God, did it sting.

It felt not too unlike somebody had jammed a sharpened, poison-covered piece of sandpaper right against his cornea and then promptly _set it on fire. _

Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed, lifted a hand to rub at the injured one that had started to tear up. "What is your problem?" He yelled, outraged, opening his eyes slightly to glare.

He found a half-way guilty look upon Sherlock's face, but as quickly as it came, it left. "That wasn't supposed to..." He shot his stare down to the ground, a small smile on his lips. "Whatever," Sherlock murmured, turning away and shutting the bedroom door as softly as he could manage.

Mycroft sighed then set back to finish getting ready, pulling the deep red socks on his feet with one teary eye squeezed closed in pain.


	42. Going Blueberry Picking

**Going Blueberry Picking**

The sun was hot beating down on the back of their necks, there wasn't any sort of breeze to speak of and they were in the middle of a crop field of ripe blueberry bushes. Apparently mummy knew the aging couple who owned the field; friends of a friend, or something, who ran their own little farmer's market.

Both of the Holmes brothers had a wicker basket on an arm filled about half-way with carefully-picked berries.

As the two made their way further and further away from their starting point, going up and down the neat rows of bushes, Sherlock began shuffling along in the dirt and mucking up his shoes in the process. He had even started dragging his basket on the ground, for godssake.

Mycroft glared over to his younger brother as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Would you stop?"

"What? What am I doing?" The five year old asked, more indignant than anything.

"You know," Mycroft said. He picked a couple more blueberries while Sherlock pointedly did not follow suit, as he had taken to scowling at the ground and crossing his arms over his chest instead. If he knew anything about Sherlock, it was when he was about to spiral into either a sulk or a fit. At the moment it appeared to be the former, so Mycroft told him exactly that. "You're sulking."

"Am not," he replied, but clearly the evidence was against him, so he backtracked a bit to make his stance more believable. "I just want to go home already, we have enough blueberries."

Curly hair had fallen limp with sweat and he kept adjusting his clothes every so often to keep the fabric from sticking to his skin. The wicker basket had been dragged on the ground for the last two rows they'd went down. He looked miserable, to say the least.

Mycroft sighed in a way that sounded as if he were in agreement, which he was. "Mummy wants extra for aunt Claire. The faster you pick them the faster we leave, so." Mycroft let his sentence hang, gesturing down towards the opposite end of the row, then the two began scanning the bushes and collecting berries a little faster.

Apparently that was the only motivation Sherlock needed to pick up the pace.

Soon, with two nearly filled baskets and Sherlock standing up on his tip-toes to reach the top of a particularly tall bush, Mycroft could've sworn he heard him mutter a petulant, "I don't even _like_ blueberry pie."

And at that he had to turn away to muffle a laugh, lest he face the silent wrath of a younger brother who was still teetering on the edge of a sulk.

"I don't either." It got Sherlock to smile, at least.


End file.
